


The Blind Goblin

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Brave and The Cunning [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, But you have to sift through a great deal of plot first you perverts, F/M, Hogwarts-universe, M/M, Multi, Potterlock, Rated for smut, Sherlock characters, Spoilers for The Blind Banker, Spoilers for all the Potter books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:24:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Interesting day?"</p><p>John looked down at the mess on his shirt and wrinkled his nose at the memory. "I had a row," he sighed, looking back up and meeting Sherlock's eyes, "with my practice Potions' cauldron."</p><p>"You had a row with a cauldron?" Sherlock's eyebrow lifted delicately.</p><p>"In a manner of speaking."</p><p>Smiling, Sherlock disappeared behind his papers again, his voice quiet but edged with humour as he said, "I suspect the cauldron won that round."<br/>---------------------------------------<br/>John visits Gringott's for the first time, gets a beard- ahem, girlfriend- and learns a little about Sherlock's past as the twosome try to solve a smuggling case. Plot will be similar (but not identical) to that of The Blind Banker.<br/>(Reading the first part would be preferable, but not necessarily required if you've seen the show and read HP. You might be a little lost, but I think you'll manage.)</p><p>COMPLETE & PROOFED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exploding Cauldrons

John Watson was not having a very good day.

For one thing, he'd been up half the night with his new "colleague" and the boy he was meant to be mentoring, Sherlock Holmes, the younger boy having spent the entire evening and most of the night teaching John the basics of fencing in the Room of Requirement. Then John had slept through breakfast  _and_ Herbology, tripped on his shoelaces going down the stairs, and broken the strap on his satchel, thus spewing his books all over the corridor where they were gleefully trampled by a pack of third-year Slytherin girls.

For another thing, this potion was not going as planned.

John glared down at his cauldron, eyeing the viscous brown liquid that burbled within unhappily. It was meant to be a sort of golden mist, but something had gone wrong along the way and… Sighing, John scooped up a handful of powdered goat's liver and flung it into the cauldron, leaning away from the fumes that hissed out and wrinkling his nose with distaste at the smell it emitted. No way was it supposed to smell like that, he was sure. Daring a glance at the Potions professor, who was kindly praising one of the Ravenclaw boys across the room, John held his breath and gave the mix three counter-clockwise swirls and a flick of his wand. For a long moment, nothing happened at all. John let out his breath and peered into the cauldron, mentally cursing the cheap second-hand instrument and its disgusting contents.

Then, the potion exploded.

\---

Having fallen into something of a routine in the past few months, John went straightaway from supper to the dungeons that housed the Slytherin common room. He'd washed up as best as he could manage after Potions, but judging from the odd looks he garnered on his way, the smell of burnt goat and the horrid carrot-orange smudges all down his shirt-front were still mildly offensive. Shrugging, John slipped into one of the disused chambers in the dungeons and yanked on the cloak he stored there before continuing down towards the Slytherins' lair. He paused at the doors, whispered, "Unicorn blood," and disappeared inside.

It was odd; if someone had entered Gryffindor tower in a cloak, there would be thirty-odd wands in the cloak-wearer's face within seconds. However, in the (surprisingly not empty) Slytherin common room, no one spared John a second glance. They were an odd bunch, John thought, but he supposed that lot felt much the same about the Gryffindors, as well.

Pausing at Sherlock's door, John first rescinded the enchantment Sherlock had placed (one of his own devising, though what exactly it did John wasn't sure) and then unlocked the door with his spare key. It clicked open and he nipped inside, pulling the door closed and relocking it before putting the enchantment back up and heaving a sigh. He tore off his cloak, threw it in Sherlock's chair, and slumped down on top of it.

Sherlock was on his bed, his legs crossed and every square inch around him littered with papers. He lowered the document he was reading and eyed John curiously before quirking a small smile at him. "Interesting day?"

John looked down at the mess on his shirt and wrinkled his nose at the memory. "I had a row," he sighed, looking back up and meeting Sherlock's eyes, "with my practice Potions' cauldron."

"You had a row with a cauldron?" Sherlock's eyebrow lifted delicately.

"In a manner of speaking."

Smiling, Sherlock disappeared behind his papers again, his voice quiet but edged with humour as he said, "I suspect the cauldron won that round."

There was no use shooting a dark look at him, hidden as he was behind that damned parchment, but John did it anyway. Then he settled back against the chair, exhausted, before letting out a small groan. How had he forgotten! He had a very long and very research heavy scroll due in the next day for Arithmancy, and he'd gotten so far as writing his name at the top of the parchment before falling asleep the night before. It looked like John was going to have another sleepless night, and another exhausting, miserable day.

Unless…

No. No way. Asking Sherlock to write his paper (even though he knew it would take the younger boy all of a half hour, whereas it would take John all night) was completely out of the question. It went against his moral code entirely.

But it was Sherlock's fault that he hadn't written it, in a way. And if John didn't keep his grades up he'd be forced to do extra work around the castle; those were the stipulations of his scholarship.

But: cheating!

But: oh God,  _sleep_ …

John licked his lips. "Sherlock. If you could possibly write this…Sherlock? Are you listening to me?"

Sherlock definitely wasn't. He had set aside the last parchment and was now perusing a different one, his eyes slanted in a way that suggested he was highly interested in what he was reading. Then he looked up at John and said, as if it were the natural conclusion to John's question, "I need to go to Gringotts."

"What, now?" John blinked at him.

"No, of course not. We'll go tonight."

"We…Sherlock. I have to write this essay, and if at all possible I really, really need to get some sleep." John ran his hand down his face and sighed. "Not to mention the problem of Gringotts being in London and us being in Scotland."

Sherlock tsked and waved his hands dismissively. "I've written your essay already; sleep is boring; and you're seventeen and thus perfectly capable of Apparating us both without arousing suspicion. I see no problems."

"You…wrote…" John coughed. "How did you…I mean-"

"Oh, do stop spluttering on," Sherlock yawned, but his tone was kindly. "I wrote your essay last night. Sleep, boring. Remember? Don't waste your time feeling guilty about it, either. It took me ten minutes to do and your mental faculties, limited though they may be, will be best used elsewhere. Now, switch me positions."

John gaped at him for a moment, and Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh before standing and gathering all the papers from the bed, dropping the mess on to the desk. "Bed, now. We're going to Gringotts at midnight so whatever precious sleep you were hoping for, you'll have to get it now."

"I- thank you." John was still feeling a bit speechless as he crawled into Sherlock's bed, yanking the covers over him.

"You smell awful," Sherlock muttered musingly. "I do hope the house-elves remember to change my sheets later."

"Piss off," John said smilingly, wriggling further down into the mattress. It was rather cozy, Sherlock's bed, if small. John kept his feelings to himself, as rule, but it was hard to ignore the facts when he was surrounded by sheets that smelled like Sherlock and listening to Sherlock's murmured voice whisper, "Go to sleep, John. I'll wake you later." Yes- John acknowledged, letting his eyes sink closed and drawing the blankets tighter around him- he was still completely mad about Sherlock, painfully so, and Sherlock was still pleasantly ignoring the obvious for the sake of their friendship. Christ, but John was in a bad way, and what could he do about it? He followed this line of thinking down into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	2. All That Glitters

"John."

The Gryffindor boy blinked, his vision murky with the remnants of a deep and much-needed bout of sleep. Letting his eyes fall closed again, he sank back down into the warmth and comfort of his…no, this wasn't his bed. This was-

John woke up all at once, nearly head-butting Sherlock as he sat up and wiped at his face, hoping against hope that he hadn't drooled or snored or anything else embarrassing, like…oh God, suppose he'd talked in his sleep? Or had a nightmare?

"Do you always wake up so…abruptly?" Sherlock watched him from beside the bed, his hands on his hips and his lips twitching towards a smile.

"Shurrup," John groaned, rubbing his eyes. Was it truly midnight already?

"Come on," Sherlock sighed, already a touch impatient. "Get up. We need to get moving." John nodded and yawned before easing out of bed and digging out the small suitcase he kept under Sherlock's bed for just such an occasion. He'd never had need to  _sleep_ in Sherlock's room before, of course, but there had been many times that he'd had to change (like the time Sherlock blew up one of his experiments, or the time they'd fallen into the lake, or the memorable evening they spent wrestling a bewitched inkpot that someone had sent Sherlock as a joke…) and it was good to be prepared. Casting one nervous glance at Sherlock- who seemed to be lost in thought as he laced up his slick black shoes- he shucked off his clothes and swiftly replaced them with the neat, clean ones from the suitcase.

He yawned again and gestured towards the door. "Loo," he explained, his voice still rough with sleep, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and flapped at him to hurry up.

\---

Because of Sherlock's intimate knowledge of the castle's various secret tunnels (gained mainly by his unlawful possession of the Marauders' Map, which he'd stolen from the Ministry without a scrap of remorse), getting out of the castle was child's play. Getting down the hill to Hogsmeade village, however, left John in a slightly tetchy mood. It was cold, bitterly cold, which- considering it was just after midnight on a late November night in the Scottish highlands- wasn't surprising, but what made John really bristle was the way his young companion seemed entirely impervious to the wind that sliced through John's clothes and the cold that made him ball up his hands in his pockets and shiver. Sherlock was as stately and unruffled as ever, if one ignored the mess of curls that seemed to have a mind of their own.

As if John were projecting his thoughts out into the crisp winter air, Sherlock let out a breath and yanked off his muffler, winding it around John's neck with a little huff and a look that was not  _quite_ a roll of his eyes, but close. "If you carry on chattering your teeth like that, I'll go mad," Sherlock said, turning up the collar of his coat.

John snuggled his chin down into the warm fabric of Sherlock's green-and-silver muffler and tried not to let the tea-tree scent of Sherlock's shampoo distract him. "All right," he said, less shaky than he was before, "so what is this, then? Why Gringotts?"

"Old acquaintance, perhaps you've heard of him. Sebastian Wilkes?" Sherlock's face was cool and impassive, but John thought there was something of an anticipatory edge to his narrow gaze.

John swallowed back his initial reaction-  _old acquaintance? didn't he break your arm in a scrap once?_ \- and gathered his thoughts slowly, letting the sound of brittle, crunching grass beneath his feet focus him. After a moment, he said, "The Daily Prophet ran a piece about him, what, a year ago? How he'd set himself up as a goblin-human liaison. Chap sounded rather full of himself, going on and on about how difficult it had been to wend his way into the world of goblin customs."

The look on Sherlock's face could have knocked John's breath out, were it not so damn distractingly cold. "Good," Sherlock said, his eyes glittering and his mouth curled slightly. "You're getting better at this. Sebastian is one of the key players at Gringotts. He deals with a lot of the older families. After the Potter affair, relations between goblins and pureblood families were strained, to say the least. Seb's position became something of an eventuality."

"So, what's the problem?"

"Two goblins have gone missing, both of whom work under Seb. Which means they dealt with the wealthier old-blood clientele." Sherlock shrugged. "Clients like that don't trust their valuables to just anybody, and Gringotts has a reputation to uphold. If those goblins aren't found soon Gringotts could lose two of its largest accounts."

"Think they've run off?" John asked. "Or do you reckon something's happened to them?"

Sherlock made a disparaging noise as they reached the end of the path and the gate into Hogsmeade. "John, surely you know by now not to theorize before having viewed all the facts?"

In a placating gesture, John held up his hands. "Okay, so…can we Apparate straight into Gringotts, or do we need to set down in Diagon Alley?"

"Diagon Alley, definitely," Sherlock said, taking John's hand and sidling up beside him. "And do be careful. I have very little interest in splinching."

"Right." Easier said than done; Sherlock was still a month shy of sixteen and nowhere near able to Apparate on his own- legally speaking, of course, because John had very little doubt that the boy already knew how to Apparate theoretically and that he'd have very little trouble picking it up when the time came. Still, there was a lot of pressure involved in a thing like this, and just because John had passed his examination-

"Today would be lovely," Sherlock drawled, and John shot him a sideways glare before letting his eyes fall closed.  _Diagon Alley, Diagon Alley. Okay, I can do this. Ready? Oh God. Okay, yes…Diagon Alley!_

\---

"Dear God, I did it."

"Your tone of surprise would worry lesser men," Sherlock said, already ambling down the quiet, empty street towards the bank. "Come along, John; we've already kept our client waiting."

John followed after him, but for once he wasn't watching Sherlock. He almost never had occasion to come Diagon Alley. His robes and supplies were provided by the school, and his plainer things- shirts, trousers, the like- were purchased at regular old Muggle charity shops by John's own mum. Actually, the last time he'd set foot in the London wizarding village it had been the summer before his fifth-year, when he'd come with Mike Stamford and Bill Murray and their parents. There had been something quietly embarrassing about coming out of every shop empty-handed, but it had still been plenty exciting.

And now, to see the place like this…it was almost ethereal.

Like so many times before in their short friendship, the sudden warmth of Sherlock's hand in his brought John's mind back to the present. The taller boy was looking at him with completely undisguised fondness, and John wondered (not for the first time) if maybe he could try things again, now that Sherlock knew him better, but like always Sherlock's voice in his memory ( _and while I'm flattered by your interest_ ) froze the impulse well before it could manifest itself into something stupid. This- Sherlock's warm hand in his- was good enough.

Sherlock was quietly speaking about their surroundings, pointing to shop after shop and giving John a quick history lesson on each one, as well as some observations Sherlock made from the state of the door handles and kickboards. Most of the shops had their over-door lamps lit, casting a soft glow over the streets, and John felt a sharp pang of regret as they stepped under the eaves at Gringotts; he hadn't really ever wanted their walk to end.

To John's surprise they didn't go in through the front door but rather continued on around the building and down the long, thin alley that ran alongside it. Behind the bank, looking more like an afterthought than a proper addition, was a little set of stairs that went down into the ground and led to some dark unknown. "This way," Sherlock said, impatient again as he tugged John down the stairs after him. The staircase was shorter than it seemed from the top, twisting a little at the bottom before stopping curtly in front of a very solid looking door. Sherlock released John's hand and rapped on the door three times before folding his arms in front of him with a rather surly expression.

\---

Seated in Sebastian Wilkes' warm little office, John was better able to get a good look at the man. He was young, of course, having been in Mycroft Holmes' grade, but he held himself like someone who hadn't been a child in a long, long time. That seemed a pretty common case with pureblood types; they were all made to grow up fast, either by overbearing parents or the pressure of pureblood society. Despite the past two Wizarding wars, purebloods were still the social elite. Money was money, after all, and no matter how many rights Muggleborns had or how much they were respected, they'd never have vaults filled to the brim with ancient and invaluable family heirlooms, not unless they stole them or married into them. No sprawling manors or house-elves that had served their family for generations; no parents at the Ministry or in the Wizengamot to subtly bend things to their will. And Sebastian Wilkes looked like the sort of oily-grinned git that knew exactly what his privilege was and saw no reason not to flaunt it.

"Sherlock," Sebastian said with the sort of false warmth John had always associated with the very rich, "so good of you to come. And you brought a friend."

John didn't like the implications Seb seemed to be impressing upon the word 'friend', nor did he like the idea of Sherlock feeling uncomfortable, so he quickly said, "Colleague. I'm his colleague. Uh, John Watson."

Seb's grin grew by miles. "Watson. Hmm. Can't say I've heard of the name."

Subtle, but it got the point across. John pursed his lips- after all, this awful prat was still a client- and looked in deference to Sherlock, who was sitting rather rigidly with his legs crossed and his top foot only very slightly twitching. "Well, you wouldn't have," Sherlock snapped, his fingers tapping once, twice on the armrest before falling still. "Now, the case. I'll need to look at the goblins' desks, of course, and the vaults they worked-"

"Naturally," Seb interrupted, his hands folding in his lap. "Whatever you need. And if you can make this little problem disappear for me by Christmas, I'll be more than happy to make it  _very_ worth your while."

"Not interested," Sherlock said at once, his eyes flitting to John and then back to Sebastian.

Seb spread his fingers in surrender, though there was something very lewd about his little smile. "Very well. A more traditional means of payment, then. Shall we say….five figures? I'll put half in your vault now and half when the job is done."

The mention of money seemed to put Sherlock in an even sourer mood. "No, not my vault. Mycroft monitors my account and I would prefer he didn't know I was taking cases outside the castle. No, put it in John's."

That seemed to startle Sebastian a little, although his smug smile was brought back by John's uncomfortable stammer. "I don't…uh, I-I don't actually have a vault, Sherlock."

"You don't…" Sherlock blinked at him for a moment but recovered quickly, turning back to Seb with his chin high and proud. "Sebastian, I need you to open an account for my  _colleague_ John Watson immediately. I'm sure the first half of my payment will be more than sufficient for covering the opening fees."

"Oh, yes," Seb agreed good-naturedly. "And will your colleague be requiring one of our maximum-security vaults, Sherlock? Perhaps one of the lower levels?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Medium security will be fine, thank you."

"Wonderful." Sebastian gave Sherlock another long, lingering look before turning to John and leaning forward, his voice taking on the high notes of someone speaking to a child. "Mr. Watson, sir, we offer a rudimentary course on Wizard money, should you need it. I know how very confusing it can all be to someone used to a more… _common_  currency."

John had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something rude. Thankfully, Sherlock did it for him. "Sod off, Seb. He knows how to use money; he's not an idiot." Standing, Sherlock turned his glare towards John and said, a bit nastily, "Let's go. We've work to do."

\---

"Merlin's beard, I need a cigarette." Sherlock rummaged in his pockets for a moment, making little frustrated noises.

"Didn't know you smoked." Leaning against the back wall of the bank, John looked at his young friend worriedly. The boy seemed impossibly unhinged, considering how cool and arrogant he normally was, and John didn't like it.

"I don't. I quit." Sherlock yanked his pockets inside-out and growled as nothing fell out of them.

John cleared his throat. "Is he always like that? So…so condescending? I swear, I half-expected him to call me a Mudblood and accuse me of stealing some honest wizard's wand."

Sherlock gave a small start at the curse. "Sebastian would never be so overt," Sherlock said after a pause, his eyes searching John's. "His attitude…it's commonplace among purebloods, but he's no neo-Death Eater. He was just trying to rile me up. Anyway, most purebloods think of Muggles and Muggleborns as hapless children who need proper guidance."

"And do you feel that way?" John asked, his hands tightening a little in his pockets.

For a long moment, Sherlock only looked at John in silence. At last he said, slowly, "I won't lie and say I find Muggles interesting or worthwhile in any real capacity. But I feel that way about nearly everyone whether they can do magic or not. People are boring, but I extend that to  _all_ people."

John put his face in his hands and laughed. "Christ. Only you could say something like that and sound like the better person for it." Sherlock laughed, too, making John relax a little. "Look," John said suddenly, "it's none of my business, but you can do better than that." John waved towards Sebastian's office with a disgusted look. "You don't- you shouldn't- I'm just saying that he's not good enough for you. At all. Just…" John shrugged. "You deserve better."

The half-smile that stole across Sherlock's face was unlike any John had seen him wear before. "Of course you would choose to be perceptive at the worst possible time," Sherlock sighed ruefully. "But you needn't worry about my honor, John. I won't be taking Sebastian to bed ever again." John's expression must have spurred him on further, because Sherlock went on, "I'm not ashamed to tell you that he was my first lover. My  _only_ lover, as a matter of fact, and I don't think I'll be so keen on making that mistake again, with him or anyone else."

John swallowed roughly. "That bad, huh?"

"One expects the first time to be less than satisfactory," Sherlock said casually, neatening the pockets he'd turned out. "But one also expects an eventual decrease in discomfort as the activity becomes more frequent. Among other things, release and the like." John noticed that the more uncomfortable Sherlock was the more formal his speech became. "When ten such exercises fail to yield acceptable results it's generally considered safe to call the experiment a failure."

"Sherlock, that's…" John shook his head. "No wonder it wasn't good if you approached it like that! You have to kind of, let go a little. You know? It's supposed to be…well, fun."

Sherlock sniffed. "I have enough annoying people in my life without adding another. I'm perfectly content to leave things as they are."

"No, you're not," John grinned, knocking him lightly with his elbow. "When have you ever been happy to let anything be?"

"Hmm." Sherlock gave John a searching look before letting his mouth turn up at the edges. "I wonder who you would recommend for Sebastian's replacement."

Oh. … _And while I'm flattered by your interest…_  Clearing his throat, John took a step back and looked up at the sky. "I thought you and Sebastian were enemies. Heard you got into a few fist-fights in your early days at school."

"Yes, that's true," Sherlock said, allowing the change of subject with only a hint of amusement in his voice. "But he was already out of school by the time anything like that happened between us. The first time was at Mycroft's New Year's party last year. In a coatroom. Polite society would be scandalized."

"Last year?" John did the math in his head. "Oh, yuck. That's…what a slug, that bloke."

"Mm, and that  _slug_ is providing us with a seemingly interesting case." Sherlock nodded towards the alley. "Shall we?"


	3. There's a Reason They Call It a 'Crush'

They didn't find much.

To say the building was imposing, John decided, was to give very little credit where credit was due. Despite it being nearly one in the morning, there were two paired sets of goblin guards, one just outside the main doors and one in the little entrance hall. John had never seen goblins in person before, having never had reason to, and so it was with some minor difficulty that he managed not to gawk at their strange, wizened faces and their oddly creepy fingers. Sherlock didn't spare them a first glance, much less a second, but then John figured that to the younger boy they were probably very commonplace indeed.

Sherlock rushed them in so quickly that John didn't get to read the inscription upon the doors, though what little he noticed-  _For those who take, but do not earn, Must pay most dearly in their turn_ \- made him gulp. But all thoughts of thieves and punishment were erased as they stepped into the main hall. For all that Diagon Alley had been silent and barren, Gringotts was quietly and efficiently bustling away. There were scores of goblins here, most of whom were working at the long counters on either side of the hall. No one was speaking, but the sounds of quills scratching and coins clinking lent a very calm but eerie aura to the room. John only realized he had stopped to stare when Sherlock stepped into his line of vision and tapped his bare wrist, grinning. "Commerce never sleeps," Sherlock said, breaking the silence, and then he was clicking away down the hall again and towards one of the diligently working goblins.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said loudly. The goblin looked up at him with bright, intelligent eyes and a touch of a sneer. Sherlock, naturally, was unfazed. "Sebastian Wilkes said you could show me to a couple of key vaults. I'm sure you're aware of the ongoing investigation."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes." The goblin eyed him and John both for a moment before clearing his throat. "Follow me, sirs."

John and Sherlock followed the goblin through one of the several doors in the hall, and once again John was completely gobsmacked. This great, stony chamber couldn't have been more different from the luxury of the hall if it tried. Dimly lit, full of odd echoes, and drafty: the way to the vaults made John shiver with actual cold in addition to anticipation. To think, one of these mad little caves down here belonged to  _him_. "You'll enjoy this next bit, John, or so I should think," Sherlock said with a wink as a small mining cart hurtled itself along the tracks (John had almost missed noticing the tracks at all, in the poor light) towards them. The goblin gestured, and John and Sherlock clambered inside.

The trip was…wild, and weird, and very, very fast. John was secretly pleased when Sherlock made a small noise that sounded a bit like "oomph!" and clutched his hand after going around a particularly sharp curve. At last the cart stopped in front of a large, looming corridor. The goblin climbed out and looked at John critically. "You must stay here, sir," he said, seeming to decide it on the spot. Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but one look at the goblin told John that arguing would only find them back at the surface without a chance to peek around at all. "It's fine," John said, giving Sherlock a look that he hoped was somewhat imposing and significant. "Go, please."

Sherlock clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and fidgeted his hands against his trousers, but finally he nodded and stalked off after the goblin, apparently unhappy but curious enough to deal with it. That pleased John, too, for whatever reason. Oh, who was he kidding? John knew the reason, of course. But it didn't matter, did it? Sherlock said he wasn't interested in dating, and he didn't seem particularly keen on sex, if their recent little chat was anything to go on (though John still felt sure that Sherlock had just been doing it wrong). He'd do well to start seeing someone else; that had always been Harry's advice (and John knew it was a dark day indeed when he was looking to Harry as a role model) and John couldn't imagine any way he'd get over this stupid crush. After all, it wasn't right, was it? Fancying Sherlock as strongly as he did when the other boy had made it so clear that he only wanted John's friendship. Really, it would be best for both of them if he just got over it.

"Daydreaming?"

John leapt a little at Sherlock's voice as the other boy sidled up to the cart and slipped inside. "It's night," he said stupidly.

To his surprise, Sherlock mused on this for a moment. "Good point," he said at last, grabbing John's hand again as the cart started up.

Not allowed in the second vault, either, John wound up taking a short kip while Sherlock and the goblin went off and adventured. He woke up to the rattle of the wheels on the track and Sherlock's hand in his.

"Any luck?" John asked, once their feet were firmly back on the ground.

Sherlock sighed heavily. "None whatsoever. I didn't see anything amiss in the vaults, no sign of tampering or foul play. And I was so sure the disappearances related back to the contents of those vaults. According to Baldur- the goblin, of course- they had the account-holders in yesterday to examine the vaults and neither of them found anything to be missing." Sherlock shrugged. "We'll check the goblins' desks and see if we can find anything out of place. If not, it's back to the drawing board with us."

John knew how frustrated Sherlock could get without a proper lead. "Right, let's search those desks extra hard then."

The searches were mostly fruitless, to both of their great annoyance, although John did find something odd after a moment's digging. "Sherlock," he said, dragging an old, beaten-looking book out from under a neat stack of parchments. "Come here a second."

Every cell in Sherlock's body seemed to be vibrating with intensity. "What? What did you find?" he asked eagerly, all but shoving John aside and tearing the book from his hands. He didn't wait for John to answer but instead went right into his deductions, "Oh now that  _is_ odd. What would a goblin be doing with a copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard? And at his work-desk at that?"

"Don't know," John said quietly, aware that some of the other goblins were glancing at them curiously. "Beedle the Bard…that's kiddie stuff, right? Fairy stories and all that?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'm not familiar with the stories personally- oh don't look at me like that, my family is hardly the type to sit around reading bedtime stories, obviously- but I don't think any of them pertain in any way to goblins. I suppose I could check the table of contents…" He flipped open the book and stopped, his eyes widening.

Peeking over Sherlock's shoulder, John's eyes widened as well. There was a small sheet of parchment lying in the open book, strange symbols written on it. And, John noted with a small swallow, the symbols looked as though they'd been drawn in blood.

"A cipher," Sherlock breathed, sounding as though he'd just found a lost treasure map.

"Great." John rubbed his eyes tiredly. "A bit of bloody scribble and a children's book. I'm sure that'll be just enough to crack the case, aren't you?"

"Probably," Sherlock said flippantly. He closed the book and tucked it under his arm. "Why are you being stroppy? Are you tired? You fell asleep down in the vaults."

John wasn't sure whether to roll his eyes or yawn, and trying to do both at once made him twinge uncomfortably. "The boy genius asks if I'm tired," he said sarcastically. But because Sherlock was looking at him quite seriously, John sighed, "Honestly, yes. I'm pretty done in. Are we just about set to go back?"

"You can't Apparate like that. You'll splinch us for sure."

"You can't do it," John said, waking up a bit more.

"No." Sherlock rubbed his thumb along his bottom lip, considering. "But we could stay here tonight. The Leaky Cauldron will have availabilities, this time of year. As I recall you've just come into a tidy little sum, so funds won't be an issue. And in the morning it will be easier to sneak back in."

John blinked at Sherlock for a moment and then shrugged, too tired to argue and not sure why he wanted to in the first place. "All right," he said at last, "but unlike you I actually attend my classes something close to ninety-nine percent of the time, so let's keep that in mind in the morning."

\---

The Leaky Cauldron was a dingy little pub with a few inn-rooms upstairs. John might have protested the frankly startlingly accommodations (and questioned Sherlock's odd familiarity with the place) if he hadn't been so tired. He might have argued about the sleeping arrangements, too, and blushed when Sherlock stripped down to his pants and eased into the bed, falling asleep as immediately as though he'd flicked a switch, but instead he just climbed into bed as well, keeping a fair bit of distance between them, and let his drowsiness settle over him and into his bones. It felt like a blink of an eye had passed when Sherlock shook him awake and murmured, "John, wake up. It's time to go back." The room paid for and the boys dressed, John took Sherlock's arm and thought about Hogsmeade until they landed dizzily just outside of Hogwarts' gates, the sun warm and the wind milder than it had been in days.

\---

John's day passed strangely. He fell into a light doze during Defense of the Dark Arts, accidentally set his professor aflame during Charms (thank God he was reasonably good at healing and had gained the sort of lightening fast reflexes one was forced to acquire in the company of a boy like Sherlock Holmes), and nearly panicked during Arithmancy until he found that Sherlock had somehow secreted the forged essay into his school-bag without his knowledge, and that even more importantly he'd done the entire thing in a perfect facsimile of John's own handwriting.

He was still tingling a bit with gratitude (and smarting a bit with embarrassment, because no one liked being "that kid that almost killed his professor that one time") as he headed down towards the dungeons after supper when he stopped, pressing his hand to his face and groaning. Study group! John had joined a study group, of course, because his marks had been slipping in recent months (no question why) and he really, truly needed to get his focus back. It was all well and good for Sherlock to write him one essay but John certainly didn't feel comfortable with that being a permanent arrangement, no matter how much they mutually benefited from the deal. Heaving an enormous sigh, John turned on his heels and trekked slowly, tiredly back upstairs and to the library.

\---

"Watson!" Mike Stamford cried, half-standing as John entered the library. The librarian gave them a dirty look, but Mike didn't seem to notice. "Fancy seeing you here! You look like hell, mate."

"Yeah, well," he shrugged, assuming that would be explanation enough. John sat down at Mike's table and glanced around. Most of the faces were familiar: Bill Murray, of course, and his girlfriend Wendy Fischer; Molly Hooper and one of her friends, Ella Thompson (who, being one of the kindliest Hufflepuff's John had ever met, was often referred to as the group's therapist and generally found herself listening to at least one sob story a day, which she never seemed to mind); Soo Lin Yao, the quiet Ravenclaw; and a new girl. The new girl was exceptionally pretty, just the sort of girl John ordinarily went for. He flashed her a quick smile and introduced himself.

"Sarah," she said, blinking prettily. "Sarah Sawyer. I'm Molly's friend."

"Hufflepuff, then?" John asked, leaning in towards her. Wasn't he just thinking about how he needed a new fling to get over Sherlock? And Sarah seemed nice. Sure, very nice.

"Too right," Sarah smiled. "And you're in Gryffindor, aren't you? I think Molly said as much."

"More like honorary Slytherin," Mike quipped, grinning at John. "Since our old pal Johnny spends all his time chasing after a certain wild-haired maniac and taking all his meals at the Slytherin table these days."

John flushed and tried to gesture at Sarah in a meaningful way when Bill took up the taunting: "Oh right, working on that  _mentoring project_." The uncomfortable emphasis he put on those last words was made only worse by the lusty wink he added at the end. "Which, conveniently, always seems to lead our Watson down to the dungeons and, if I'm not mistaken, into a certain someone's bedroom at all hours."

"Come off it," John said, his face burning. "And I should have stayed down there, for all the studying I'm getting done up here. At least those damn Slytherins know how to mind their own business."

Bill and Mike grinned at each other, but at least the subject was quickly dropped and replaced with talk of schoolwork and spellwork.

\---

Despite how tired he felt, John actually managed to have a rather good time with his study group. He wasn't seeing much of his friends these days (not even Mike or Bill, and he  _roomed_ with them) and he hadn't realized how much he missed their company. They weren't Sherlock by any leaps or bounds, but sometimes it was nice to settle into some normalcy and actually behave like a student for awhile. And Sarah turned out to be quite the witty addition to their group; John found himself genuinely drawn to her clever banter and flirty smile.

Somehow John found himself alone with her at the end of the meeting, everyone else having scarpered off to work on assignments or meet with other friends. John was packing his things away when Sarah leaned against the table, tucking her hair behind her ear. "So, you're taking your mentoring project quite seriously, are you?"

"Oh," John said, fumbling with his bag for a moment and fighting the heat in his face, "yeah, I suppose. I just- well, the boy I'm mentoring had a really excellent idea, but it's sort of…time consuming."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Time consuming," she repeated. She sucked in her lower lip and then let out a breath. "So…are you seeing him, then? The boy you're mentoring?"

"God no," John said quickly. "I- no. Definitely not. I'm not seeing anyone." The relief on Sarah's face was so clear that John felt bold enough to add, "Which, uh, means I haven't got a date for the next Hogsmeade weekend, either. If you're interested."

"Okay," Sarah said, her expression brightening. John smiled back at her and tried to pretend that the sudden hollow feeling in his stomach was just hunger.

 


	4. Cipher? I hardly know her!

"Holmes to Watson, do you read me? Over."

John yawned and scooped the little shell that he'd been given by Mycroft Holmes out of his pocket, ignoring the odd looks he was getting as he brought it to his lips. "Watson to Holmes, I read you. Over."

"John, are you alone? Over."

A group of girls passing John in the corridor tittered and he flushed, huffing out a breath before saying, with his teeth gritted, "Decidedly not, Sherlock. I'm in the halls, heading up to Gryffindor Tower. Do you want me to come down? Over."

"Not necessary," Sherlock said breezily. For all that he wasn't getting much sleep either, Sherlock sounded rather pleased with himself. The reason, of course, was quickly revealed: "Cracked the code. That note in the goblin's book? It was a death threat. Over."

John shivered. "Kind of figured that, considering it was all…bloody, and whatnot. Over."

When Sherlock answered, he sounded a little haughty and indignant, to John's satisfaction. "Hmph. What a stellar example of deductive reasoning," he said sarcastically. "Now aren't you going to ask me how I managed the arduous task of cracking that cipher? Over."

Rolling his eyes, John skipped the false step on the staircase and sighed, "How'd you do it, oh great mastermind? Over."

Too excited to be huffy, Sherlock rushed, "Well, I doubted very seriously that the connection between the cipher and the book was tenuous. Obviously it wasn't coincidence that we found them there, together, because the goblin had been using the book to translate the message, of course. As for the symbols themselves, that was a touch more difficult. I'm sure you noticed the similarity they took to ancient runes, but I suspected these symbols were far more archaic. So I broke into the restricted section of the library this morning-"

"You  _what_?" John hissed, glancing around. "Sherlock! I'm right out in the corridor, you know? Anyone could have heard you say that!"

There was a beat of silence, and then: "I didn't say 'over', John. That was quite rude."

"Oh for God's sake," John grumbled to himself, and then, with a sigh, "Look, haven't you used a Muggle telephone? We don't have to say 'over' every time. Conversation tends to have natural pauses and-"

"Well if we're not using 'over' anymore," Sherlock interrupted, making John pinch the bridge of his nose, "then at least be quiet so I can finish what I was saying.  _Anyway_ , I did  _something_ that apparently you think I shouldn't have done and  _somehow_  acquired a book." Every word was drenched in sarcasm. "The book provided the key to the cipher. You see, I've made something of a hobby studying archaic languages-"

"Yes, I know. Trust me, I know," John said, definitely not wanting Sherlock to begin listing the 526 ways one could write the word 'magic' in ancient Sumerian cuneiform again. He mumbled "puffy puffskeins" to the portrait and stepped through, hurrying through the common room as he said, "Let's get back to this one language in particular. What did you find?"

Sherlock sighed long-sufferingly. "Well, as I thought initially, the symbols don't stand for letters or even words, really. They're numbers. A pair of numbers.

"Okay," John said, drawing the word out. He nodded at Mike and hopped into bed still fully-dressed, pulling the curtains closed around him and casting the _muffliato_  charm. Sitting with his legs folded and his elbows on his knees, he said, "So how did that help?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"Wouldn't be asking if it were," John said tersely.

He could practically hear Sherlock's incredulous stare, the one he got when someone was being even more of an idiot than usual. "Two numbers. The numbers correspond to the book, clearly. John, you really can't figure it out?"

John rubbed his eyes and let out a breath. "Is it like with the Bible, then? I…well, I don't know if you know anything about the Bible-"

"Muggle Studies," Sherlock said quickly. "Go on."

"Well with the Bible you find a particular passage because it's labeled with two numbers. Paragraph and verse. So…is that what this is?"

"Close!" Sherlock cried delightedly, and John laughed despite himself. "Page number and word," Sherlock went on, a smile in his voice. "The numbers were eighty-eight and two. I don't suppose you have a copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard handy and I have no interest in racketing up the anticipation, so I'll just go ahead and tell you: the second word on the eighty-eighth page is 'Death'."

John whistled. "Creepy. But not horribly illuminating, is it? Still doesn't leave us much to be going on."

"On the contrary," Sherlock said, sounding pleased, "we have more information than we could have possibly hoped for. For instance, I think we can be reasonably sure the goblin understood the code, having had the means to translate it at his work desk for no other rational reason. Thus it stands to reason that the goblin had some means of association with his killer, probably in some sort of professional capacity, but not in any official Gringotts business. The other goblins didn't have any real reaction to the book other than mild curiosity so they're not involved. Likewise, I think we can safely say that the killer is a wizard, or a group of wizards. No reason for a goblin to pick that particular book and the language, while ancient, is definitely human. So we have a wizard or group of wizards who had some association with this goblin, sent him a death threat, and then presumably killed him. I think we can safely assume the same thing happened to the other goblin, although I'd like to investigate more thoroughly to find out for sure. Now,  _think_. What could the motive behind these actions  _possibly_ be?"

"Money," John said immediately, sitting up a little straighter. "Or rather, access to the vaults."

"Ah," Sherlock said softly. "Access to the vaults. To the vaults of two of the wealthiest wizard families in the nation, in fact. John, we have to check those vaults again. I'm almost certain we'll find that something is missing after all."

"But the vault owners already said there wasn't," John protested quietly, careful not to raise his voice too loudly as other boys shuffled in and began to change for bed.

Sherlock's voice was quiet, too, but rippling with excitement. "Goblins aren't just good at keeping money safe, John. They're also very gifted in the skill of forgery. Remember your history, the sword of Gryffindor and the Potter scandal. If those goblins were properly motivated, then only another goblin would be able to look at the items in that vault and know if they'd been replaced with fakes."

"God," John breathed, clutching the shell a little tighter. "You have to tell Sebastian, immediately."

"Of course. I've owled him already." Sherlock cleared his throat, his tone growing more commanding. "Get some sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow."

Groaning, John said, "Sherlock, I really need to get some homework done this weekend, okay? So yes, tomorrow we can traipse about solving crime, but Sunday I really, really must spend the day locked in the library. All right?"

"Yes, fine," Sherlock said quickly, his tone suggesting it was anything but. "Good night, John. I'll come up to fetch you tomorrow."

"Right, okay. Night, Sherlock. Should I say 'over and out'?" John asked, spinning his wand and letting the muffling charm drop.

Sherlock laughed, a small, huffing sound. "Good night, John."

Smiling at his ridiculous little shell, John pushed aside the curtains and set it on the bedside table. It was then that he noticed Mike reclining in his own bed, his curtains set open. Mike waggled his eyebrows and drawled, "Good night, John," in a frankly awful imitation of Sherlock's imperious tones before falling into a fit of giggles. John could only roll his eyes and turn away, his face red as he changed into his pyjamas and climbed into bed.

\---

"Hey, lover boy."

Turning over, John made a noise that he hoped was discouraging and yanked his covers over his head.

"Oh, don't be like that," Bill Murray said cheerfully, pulling the blankets back down again. "Come on, wakey wakey. Your prince awaits."

"Right," John said hoarsely, his voice rough with sleep, "let's not forget who kicked who's arse in second-year, hmm? I don't mind having a rematch, I'll have you know."

"Now, now," Bill tutted, sitting down on the edge of the bed and grinning, "is that any way to talk to an old friend? Now get your useless bum out of bed, princess, or I'll send your boyfriend up here to drag you out of it himself. And with the state of your breath- frankly appalling, by the way- I think you'd prefer I didn't."

John punched him lightly and grumbled, "Not my boyfriend."

Laughing, Bill shook his head. "Whatever you say, mate."

"I'm serious." John sat up and raked his fingers through his hair, trying to neaten it a little. "In fact, I've got a date with Sarah Sawyer next weekend. Remember her, from study?"

"Oh, yeah," Bill said appreciatively, giving John a look of respect. "Blimey, she's fit. How'd a gormless git like you swing that one?"

They tussled for a moment over that before John finally stalked away, breathless and pretending to be angry, calling over his shoulder, "That's me with two prospects then, by your count, and you with zero so far as I can see." He paused at the top of the stairs and grinned wickedly back at Bill. "If I'm a princess, at least I'm a busy one." He tossed a wink at Bill and dashed down the stairs, Bill's raucous laughter carrying after him.

\---

John wasn't terribly surprised by the way his stupid, traitorous heart picked up speed when he spotted Sherlock waiting for him in the hall. He wasn't surprised that Sherlock had already decided they were skipping breakfast, and he wasn't surprised to find himself first in a secret tunnel and then in the cellar at Honeydukes, arm-in-arm with Sherlock and thinking carefully about Diagon Alley. He wasn't surprised when Sherlock yanked him forcibly in the direction of Gringotts, wasn't surprised by the way they stomped into the hall (which was now  _swarming_ with goblins and wizards alike) and shoved a tiny witch with an unfortunate-looking hat out of the way, wasn't even really surprised by the way Sherlock commanded the now-free goblin's attention and got it as though it were his due.

He was, however, mildly surprised at Sherlock's insistence that John be allowed into the vaults this time.

"Sherlock," he said, interrupting his tirade and the goblin's angry splutters, "I'm not exactly an expert on-"

Sherlock gave him a silencing look and rounded anew on the goblin. "He comes into those vaults with me," Sherlock growled, "or I inform Sebastian Wilkes that you're impeding my investigation. As I understand it, he has rather more influence than you do on what happens after that. Now, shall we get on with this or would you like to drag it out even further?"

The goblin's dark eyes glittered menacingly, but his mouth snapped shut and without another word he led the pair down a long hallway. At the end of the hall he stopped and fiddled with a door, and then the door swung open and he waved them in with a flourish.

"Don't touch anything," Sherlock hissed needlessly.

John shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around, his eyes round. There were stacks upon stacks upon stacks of Galleons in the room, among other things. Pieces of old furniture, piles of what John could only call treasure, chests and lockboxes and, terrifyingly, a shiny black coffin (the lid blessedly closed).

"I'm going to be frank with you," Sherlock said, snapping John back to attention. He was looking at the goblin seriously, and the goblin was staring at him just as gravely. "There is a forgery in this room, placed here by one of your kinsmen. I understand goblin loyalty perfectly well but I can assure you that any attempts to place the blame upon myself or my associate will only end badly for you. I have no intentions of making this a public matter. Do you understand?"

"Impossible," the goblin said, but his eyes were darting around the room, settling on this item and that before moving on to the next.

"Improbable," Sherlock corrected, "and yet unfortunately true. Find me the forgery and I can correct this matter at once, with no Auror interference and no word to either the public or the account-holders."

The goblin's eyes locked back on Sherlock's. "Why should you be so willing to help?"

"I have no interest in revealing your secrets," Sherlock said, looking completely unabashed. "And I'm being paid handsomely to keep my word. My colleague, Mr. Watson, has heard every word of this conversation. He can and will serve as witness should anything untoward transpire and while he doesn't look like much, I must insist he is quite proficient with spellwork and rather relentless in his cause to keep me unharmed. Surely you see that we have the upper-hand, and so while I ask that you trust me and I have every intention of keeping my word, I hope you understand that you and the rest of your kind are really in no position to barter."

John held his breath during this entire exchange, squirming when his name got dragged into it. Was Sherlock trying to get them killed, the idiot? Instinctively, his hand went to his wand.

The goblin noticed and his eyes narrowed. "Meddling wand-bearers," he hissed, but then, to John's great surprise, he clenched his fists and stomped over to the heaps of gold and silver, his eyes hunting through them carefully. John looked over at Sherlock, who was smiling smugly, before returning his stunned gaze to the goblin. The creature paced around slowly, occasionally picking things up and seeming to take their heft, holding them up and twisting them in the light, even once putting out his tongue and setting it against the metal of an old, ruby-encrusted helmet. When he picked up a dulled silver vase, however, he went completely rigid. He stood that way for some moments before turning slowly on his heel and meeting Sherlock's eyes furiously. "How is it," he asked, his voice low, "that you came to be aware of this transgression?"

"Ah, so this is the forgery then," Sherlock said, his eyes shining with joy and something else, something more menacing. "Excellent. What properties did the original have that made it worth stealing?"

The goblin's gaze dropped to the vase in his hands, and his voice became almost sad. "It was said to have once held the waters of the Fountain of Fair Fortune. Such properties as those waters might have had, says the legend, would have been imbued by the vase itself and could then be given to regular, non-magical water for the entirety of the vase's existence."

"Goblin-made, then," Sherlock said. "And while doubtless the story is untrue, the imbibing property of the vase  _is_ unquestionably true. The real vase, at least; I doubt very seriously the forgery is much more than a pretty placeholder." He tapped his fingers against his lower lip, lost in thought. After a long, silent moment, in which John looked from Sherlock to the increasingly angry goblin and back several times, Sherlock sighed and said, "Very well. Put the vase back, and keep in mind that it would be in your best interest to feign ignorance in this instance. Two of your associates have already been murdered over this; heed that as a warning, if you'd like." He started off towards the doorway, calling back, "Come along. We need to get back to the surface."

 


	5. Phoning For Back-Up

A little shaken from the showdown in the vault, John was happy to trot mindlessly behind Sherlock, the younger boy's robes billowing from the steady pace with which he walked out of the bank and out to the street. There weren't terribly many people around, certainly not like it was during the end of summer, but more crowded than it had been during the night. John nearly had to jog to keep pace but he didn't mind; his leg was the last thing on his mind at the moment, and no way was he letting Sherlock out of his sight. He knew how dangerous this thing was now, and he knew Sherlock's proclivity towards being a prat and wandering into danger like a toddler into traffic. He wasn't frightened for himself in the least, but Sherlock…

The boy in question stopped abruptly, John almost running into his back, and fished his own little seashell device from his pocket. "I hate to do this," he said absently, "but…" Sighing, he brought it to his lips and said, "Mycroft Holmes, and quickly."

"Just a moment," said a female voice.

John balked a little. He'd thought theirs was a private line or something; had Mycroft been listening to their every conversation?

"As much as I delight in hearing from you, brother dearest," Mycroft's voice said, sounding both haughty and impatient, "I must regrettably inform you that now is not a good time."

"Don't care," Sherlock said. "I need you to buy something for me."

"Something you cannot buy in Diagon Alley?" Mycroft said, and Sherlock scowled at the device.

Apparently choosing to ignore the taunt, Sherlock said, "A vase. Silver. Goblin-made. Said to be imbued with the waters of the Fountain of Fair Fortune. You'll find it on the black market; when you do, call me immediately." With that, he stuffed the shell back into his pocket and looked up at John as though only just noticing he was still there. "What? You look as though you've seen a dementor."

"Has he…" John cleared his throat. "Does Mycroft…I mean…"

"Oh." Sherlock smiled his little half-smile that he seemed to save for when John was being particularly Mugglish. "The shells. You don't know how they work, of course. Don't feel bad, most wizards have never even seen them." He withdrew the shell again and held it out. "It's all to do with intent. I'm intending to call you now, see, so I think about you and say your name: 'Holmes to Watson' in this instance, because I prefer the sound of it. Holmes to Watson."

"Holmes to Watson," echoed Sherlock's voice from John's pocket.

"Oh," John said as Sherlock pocketed his device again. "How does it know when you're done with your conversation?"

"Same way, intent." Sherlock smiled again. "But considering that we're two of only, perhaps, twenty people on the planet that own the things, I don't think you'll have much need of using it any more often than you have been. Still, I suppose it's better that you know you can contact Mycroft. Loathe as I am to do so, it is sometimes necessary."

"Right," John said, still a little bewildered. If it was such a simple little piece of tech, why didn't every wizard and witch own one? He didn't have much time to consider it, though, because Sherlock was looping his arm around John's and demanding they get back to the castle at once, and John's stomach was growling in a way that suggested it agreed adamantly.

\---

"Now what?" John asked, taking a mouthful of noodles happily. He had long since stopped getting strange looks from the Slytherins for sitting at their table; now his presence was mostly just met with frosty silence and willful ignorance.

"Now we wait," Sherlock responded, his fingers tapping on the table and his eyes locked in a death glare that was directed, for whatever reason, at John's full plate.

_Let him be tetchy and hungry_ , John thought, taking another big bite and almost rolling his eyes back at how good it was.  _I'm going to eat whether he likes it or not._

"You're like a hoover," Sherlock said disgustedly, and John laughed.

"What do you know about hoovers?" John asked around a mouthful of food. "Even if you weren't wizard-born, you're filthy rich. You probably grew up thinking your rooms cleaned themselves."

"Nonsense," Sherlock sniffed. "I knew about the house elves." He reached over to John's plate and snagged a bit of bread, despite there being a full tray of identical bread at the center of the table. Tearing a tiny portion off, Sherlock set it gingerly in his mouth and chewed as though he'd never done so in his life. After a moment he said, "Does it bother you? My family's wealth?"

John shrugged, more fascinated by Sherlock's willingness to eat (and while on a case!) than anything. "Not really," he said, watching Sherlock take another tiny bite of bread. Was he eating because it had come from John's plate? Why? How did that even make sense? But then, when did Sherlock Holmes ever make sense?

"You're telling the truth," Sherlock said slowly. "Interesting." His hand darted out like a striking snake and closed around the rest of John's dinner roll before disappearing behind Sherlock's back. He stood and said, "When Mycroft calls, I'll inform you," before disappearing from the room so quickly John would have almost thought he'd Disapparated.

\---

John didn't hear anything more from Sherlock that evening, although he did get an owl from Sarah during supper.  _Looking forward to our date!_ the little scroll read.  _Did you have anything that you wanted to do in mind? I'm not really a Madame Pudifoot's type of girl._ John grinned and pocketed the message, intending to reply in the morning but half-sure that Sherlock would have him off and running in the morning instead, leaving him to forget all about Sarah and her note.

He didn't, though, and John found himself rather glumly hanging around in Gryffindor tower for all of Sunday morning, unwittingly pacing the room until one of the younger boys called out, "You're wrecking my concentration, mate!" and he was forced to recognize that awaiting summons was both pointless and silly. He apologized to the chess-players, dashed off what he hoped was a flirty message to Sarah, and padded forlornly up to the library to do his schoolwork.

This pattern held all the way to Wednesday. John had only seen Sherlock in passing and the boy seemed too lost in thought to pay him much heed at all, and so he'd managed to get caught up with all his work, clean out the bottom of his trunk, watch the last Quidditch match before the holidays, and even have a sort of sneaky drinking session with the boys in the dormitory. It was a lot like life before Sherlock, honestly, which was even worse for the fact that it made John frankly miserable. He missed Sherlock's weird sense of humor and the mad-cap adventures they had, and he missed Sherlock's voice and the little half-smile he was so fond of and-

Yeah, John had it bad. It was going to be much more difficult to get over this than he'd realized. Because he'd mooned over plenty of people over the years, naturally, but he'd never fancied anyone the way he fancied Sherlock Holmes.

So it was with an intense wave of relief and a little stab of self-reprimand that he answered Sherlock's call of "Holmes to Watson" on his shell device. "Watson here," he said, struggling to keep the eagerness from his voice. "Got anything new?"

"Come downstairs," Sherlock said, not hiding his eagerness at all. "Mycroft's just called."

\---

John all but burst into Sherlock's room where the dark-haired boy was lounging upside-down, his head on the floor, his bottom in the chair, and his feet sticking straight up into the air. He paused before closing the door and putting the enchantments back up, and when he turned back to face Sherlock again he lifted an eyebrow and said, quite calmly, "I imagine there's some reason for that."

"Not really," Sherlock said mysteriously. "Mycroft called."

"So you said. What have you been doing all week, then? Trying to learn how to do a handstand?"

"I'm perfectly capable of doing a handstand," Sherlock said, proving it by executing one perfectly before doing a little tumble and landing neatly on his feet in front of John. "No, I spent all of Sunday harvesting doxy eggs, most of Monday treating the bites, and then pretty much all of Tuesday crushing the eggs into a mush and testing them in a variety of potions."

"For some reason," John said leadingly. Sherlock only grinned, which made John laugh and shake his head. "You are a true eccentric, Sherlock Holmes, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

"And you've been going mad with boredom, John Watson," Sherlock said, dropping back into his chair (right-side up this time) and interlocking his fingers, "and don't try to tell  _me_  otherwise. But! Good news. We have a lead. I hope you slept during our little adjournment, John, because you're not sleeping at all tonight. We've got to go to Godric's Hollow."

If John had tried to deny the rush of pleasure Sherlock's speech had given him, he probably would have failed entirely. As it was, he didn't even try. "Thank God," he said honestly. "Let's go."


	6. Sherlock, John, and the Vases Make Four

Godric's Hollow was a pretty, snow-swept little hamlet. John had been once before, on a summer holiday with one of his mates to see the Potter house, but- like with Diagon Alley- he hadn't been at night, during winter, or with Sherlock.

As if sensing his thoughts, Sherlock turned and gave John his typical half-smile before reaching over and taking his hand. "Mycroft said the antiques dealer he exchanged letters with seemed clueless, but that he suspected she wasn't as ignorant as she was pretending to be. That's what we're doing here, by the way. We're interviewing the woman with the vase."

"All right," John said amiably. He hadn't even thought to ask. A light dusting of snow was coming down, sprinkling them with snowflakes, and John unthinkingly brushed a little speckle from Sherlock's fringe with his free hand, gasping a little when Sherlock caught John's hand with his own.

"Sorry," he mumbled, going pink, "I didn't mean to-"

"John." Something in Sherlock's tone made John stop fidgeting and stammering and just  _look_. Sherlock's eyes were wide and pale and focused entirely on John; it was impossible to do anything but go still under such an intense gaze. His lips parted on their own and Sherlock's eyes flicked down, and for one wild, heart-hammering second John felt sure the other boy was going to kiss him…but then he released both of John's hands and cleared his throat, looking away into the darkness. "I think the shop is that way," Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely before tucking both his hands in his pockets and quickly striding away. John stood still for only a second until his lungs started drawing breath again and he wasn't quite so dizzy, and then he followed silently, his wind whirling.

He caught up with Sherlock on the front steps of a small, twinkly shop called Burnetta's Burdensome Bilge. Sherlock gave him one quick, strange look before saying, softly, "Follow my lead," and knocking on the door three times, pausing, knocking once more, and calling out quietly, "Special order!"

After a few moments the door swung open, and a suspicious looking woman of around sixty opened the door. "Mr. Holmes," she said pleasantly, although her eyes were still darting between them, "you look rather younger than I'd expected."

"Yes, well," Sherlock said, brushing his way inside, "it's good to begin collecting pieces early. I'll be outfitting my own manor within two years."

The woman stared after him and his rapidly dwindling voice before turning to look at John and saying, "I…I suppose you'd better be coming in then, as well."

John followed the woman inside, looking vaguely at the shelves of antiques and magical oddments. She led him to a small sitting room, where Sherlock was already sitting as though he owned the place. "Tea?" she squeaked, settling down nervously in a well-worn chair.

"No, thank you," Sherlock said, giving her a fake smile. He glanced up at John. "Sit," he said, before looking back at the woman. "This is my servant, Watson. He'll be carrying the package, should everything go smoothly with the purchase."

"Burnetta Bilkley," the woman said, folding her hands in her lap as John settled down beside Sherlock on the settee. "I…as I said, you're much younger than I'd expected."

Sherlock's voice was frosty as he replied, "Is that a problem?"

"No! Merlin, no," Burnetta said anxiously. "I only just…well, oughtn't you young men be at school?"

"The vase, Mrs. Bilkley," Sherlock said, smiling again. "I have a few engagements waiting, and I'd rather hoped this would be a quick process." Drawing a small pouch from his pocket, he said, "Unless you'd changed your mind?"

Burnetta leapt up from her seat and smoothed the front of her dress. "Absolutely not, sir, absolutely not. Give me just a moment." She bustled away, still smoothing her dress, and John leaned over towards Sherlock.

"Are you trying to give the old woman a heart attack?" he hissed, putting all his thoughts of 'that moment outside' elsewhere.

"She deals with smugglers, John," Sherlock sighed, "I think she's made of sterner stuff than she's pretending."

Just then Burnetta came back in, holding not one but two vases, each once cradled like a baby. "Forgive the cheek," she said coyly, "but I wondered if you might be interested in the set? You see, they come as a pair."

"A pair," Sherlock mouthed, something clicking on behind his eyes. "Of course…" Shaking his head, he said, "Yes, of course. I should very much be interested. Might I examine them more closely?" He stood and took one of the vases, holding it to the light. "What the…by the wand, woman! This vase is mine already!"

"Wh-what?" Burnetta clutched the other vase closely, looking at Sherlock in horror. "I don't know-"

"Tell me where you got it," Sherlock demanded, stepping up close to her. "The vase, woman!  _My_ vase! How did this item come into your possession?"

"Mr. Holmes, I don't-"

"I could have the Aurors here in minutes, Mrs. Bilkley; now  _tell me_." Sherlock looked back at the vase in his own hands wonderingly. "This was in my family vault," he said, sounding wistful. "An heirloom from my grandmother's side." He looked back up at Burnetta sharply and seethed, "Why do you have it?"

"I didn't know it was stolen!" Burnetta cried, her eyes misty. "I swear it! Wouldn't have bought it if I did, you must believe me."

"Who sold this to you?"

"A-a witch," the old woman stammered, pressing her palms to her cheeks. "She seemed a nice and proper sort. I…I had no idea-"

"Save it," Sherlock said, snatching the other vase from her hands. "Describe this woman to me. She's been in my vault, apparently, and it's imperative that I find her."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," Burnetta sighed worriedly, "I've gotten myself into a right mess, haven't I?"

"Afraid so," Sherlock said, "and if I have to send for the Aurors it will only get worse. Describe the woman that sold you this vase."

"She was…Chinese," Burnetta mumbled, looking at her hands. "Nice woman, as I said. Short hair. Didn't mention her name, you know, but she said she'd be on the island for a spell, sorting out some business and doing a spot of traveling. Kept asking me about another thing, wanting to know if anyone had sold me some sort of a hairpin. Well I didn't know anything about that, did I? So I said no and she went straight away, didn't even stay for tea." Looking back up, Burnetta met Sherlock's eyes and said, "What are you going to do, Mr. Holmes? I-I haven't got much money-"

"Please save your tears for some other fool," Sherlock said stiffly. "I'm not going to report you." Burnetta sagged with relief, but then Sherlock went on, "I am, however, taking both of these vases. And since one of them is already mine, I think our previous sum will serve sufficiently." Burnetta squeaked unhappily, but Sherlock simply threw the little pouch down on one of the end tables and scooped up both vases, lifting his nose and demanding, "Come, Watson." And that was that; Burnetta stood sniffling in the sitting room as Sherlock breezed out, and John followed behind him, frowning.

"Marvelous!" Sherlock cheered once they were outside, passing John the vases distractedly and clapping his hands together. "That went wonderfully, don't you think?"

"Not really. That woman probably lost a great deal of money just then, all because of an honest mistake." John made a face. "I feel bad for her, I guess."

Sherlock laughed, and when John looked at him quizzically he said, "That woman's earrings cost more than your entire education thus far, John. She's not suffering from the loss of a few Galleons, I promise. I'm actually a little surprised at you, falling so easily for that sorry dotty-aunt act."

"Maybe the earrings were an inheritance," John said weakly, shifting the vases in his arms. Sherlock, seeming to notice the actual weight of the things for the first time, took one of them back and hefted it easily.

"And maybe her dress, shoes, stockings, make-up, hat, perfume, and expensive brand of tea were all inheritances as well," Sherlock said, but he was smiling. "John, I assure you: she will be fine. And we're doing a good thing, returning these vases to their rightful owners."

John hugged the vase in his arms more closely. "I suppose so," he said, giving Sherlock a small smile. "Not that they'll ever know it. She really wasn't poor then?"

"Not in the least." Sherlock looked at him with that same strange bewilderment as before, his eyes searching John's face. "John, you are the most nonsensical puzzle I've ever encountered."

"I think that's a compliment," John joked, freeing one hand to zip his coat higher.

"I think so, too," Sherlock said absently, and then, noting the way John was shivering, "Well, we might as well take these to Gringotts, then."

John nodded and took Sherlock's hand, closing his eyes and Disapparating them away.

\---

It wasn't snowing in London, but the encounter left John just as cold. He strongly disliked Sebastian Wilkes, for one thing, and he really didn't like the way Sherlock tensed up around the man either. Sebastian was thrilled, of course, at their having recovered the items, but he was still as condescending and terrible as the first time John had met him and John wasn't sorry in the least to get out of the little office and back out in front of the bank. This time he reached over and took Sherlock's hand himself, startling the younger boy from his thoughts. "All right?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm thinking."

"What about?"

Laughing, Sherlock shook his head. "One thousand things, John, and only one of them is you. Let's go back to the castle. Tomorrow we'll work on tracking down that hairpin, and the smugglers."

_He's thinking about me,_  John thought ridiculously, and then cleared his throat and nodded. "All right," he said, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "To Hogsmeade it is."


	7. (Un)Lucky Cat

"So here's where we stand," Sherlock said at breakfast, all of the weird awkwardness of the night before gone. "Two goblins; two vases. Clearly the goblins worked for the smugglers, secreting the vases out of the two different vaults and replacing them with forgeries. However, one of the goblins got greedy. Took something that had been promised to the smugglers."

"The hairpin," John said thoughtfully, swirling his spoon around in his oats. "But why kill them both?"

"It's possible that the smugglers weren't sure which one was the thief, being unaware of which one worked which vault. Goblin loyalty is an unusual thing; neither would have betrayed the other."

"They were thieves," John pointed out, "and working for some bloody unsavory sorts. If they were so loyal, why'd they rob the bank in the first place?"

Sherlock sighed. "Now I can see why your marks are so rubbish. Look: the vases were goblin-made, correct? Which means that, in the eyes of the goblins, those vases weren't being stolen at all. More like…returned to their proper owners and then rightfully sold. It's flawed logic, certainly, but that's what goblins believe. Which is why we can also assume that the hairpin is goblin-made, and that one of the goblins probably had some sort of sentimental attachment to it. Perhaps one of his own ancestors created it."

John shrugged. "So what are we going to do now?"

"I have a few ideas," Sherlock said, but he didn't elaborate.

\---

Schoolwork took over, and John spent all of Thursday night doing the essay he'd neglected on the previous evening. John could have run off with Sherlock on Friday, but it seemed his services weren't needed. Sherlock didn't call him or come around; perhaps he'd gotten lost in doxy eggs again. Maybe that was for the best. John was likely to do something very stupid if things continued to be so tense between them. Better to let his emotions cool off a bit. Thus thinking, John enjoyed a very rousing match of wizard's chess against Bill, and then lost several hours helping Mike trap a fairy which had somehow hatched in the bottom of his school trunk and flown out, quite angrily, when the trunk was finally opened to be repacked for the holidays.

It wasn't until he had finally lain down that he'd remembered his date with Sarah. He wasn't sure what to make of his feelings about the whole thing; what did it say about him that he was slightly dreading the whole venture?

_Sarah is a nice girl,_  John told himself firmly, turning over and punching his pillow into comforting submission.  _Mum would like her. Probably Dad would have, too. Give her a chance._

\---

Easier said than done, as it turned out.

John was standing in the Great Hall watching the students, all wrapped in warm coats and scarves, flood out and waiting for Sarah when Sherlock whisked over and stood in front of him, hands in his pockets and a smile on his face. "Oh, good," he said, "you're already down. Ready?"

"I, um," John stammered, caught a little off guard. Sherlock really didn't seem like the sort to enjoy Hogsmeade trips and it wasn't like they'd planned to go together or anything. So why was he suddenly feeling so guilty? "Sorry, but I've…I've got a date."

"A what?" Sherlock looked so shocked at the idea that John grew just the slightest bit defensive.

"A date," he said, folding his arms. "It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."

"I know what a date is," Sherlock snapped, waving his hand erratically, "and that's practically what I was…no, that's fine. Good for you, John." He flashed one of his phoniest smiles. "Where are you taking her?"

"Erm, Honeydukes," John decided. "And…Zonko's, maybe? Then…" He flushed and had to actually will himself not to rub the back of his neck. "I was thinking about seeing if she wanted to go for a walk, maybe, and if that went well…" He shrugged. "Might try for a bit of a snog or something, I don't know."

Sherlock raised one of his eyebrows. "Oh. Candy store, prank shop. Hmm. Dull, boring, and childish. Good luck with that snog."

"Now, look here-"

"Try this instead," Sherlock said, drawing two slim green tickets from his pocket and handing them to John, his smile a little more sincere. "They're only in Hogsmeade this weekend. World famous dancers, I'm sure your date will love it."

John almost said something snippy…but the look on Sherlock's face stopped him. "Thanks, mate," he said instead, tucking the tickets into his pocket. "What about you?"

"Oh," Sherlock grinned, looking rather mischievous, "I'm sure I'll come up with something."

\---

"Dancers," Sarah said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"Er, yeah." John coughed and looked around, searching the pale sky as though it held the answer to everything. "World famous."

"And your friend…"

"Sherlock, yeah," John nodded. "He thought we might like them." Nudging Sarah with his shoulder, he smiled and said, "That's kind of a grand gesture, from him. Must mean he approves."

"Uh huh," Sarah said, smiling.

They made their way out to the outskirts of the village, to a small shop called the Lucky Cat. John had never been to the place before, and by the looks of it, not many students considered the trip worth their time. Sarah looked at the place a little warily before looking back at John, who shrugged and pulled the door open, waving her inside.

The shop was small but open, only the wall-mounted shelves lined with trinkets and goods. The vast majority of the sales floor was empty, and only a few people stood around the edges of the room, sipping drinks and murmuring in low voices. John thought he recognized one of the artsy Ravenclaw girls a year under him, and maybe one of the boys near the back, but mostly the lighting was too poor and the atmosphere so different from his usual that no one seemed overly familiar. John handed their tickets to the slight, frail-looking old woman at the door and led Sarah into the room by her elbow. When they'd chosen a spot, John looked around the room anxiously and was just thinking about how  _not_ snogged he was going to be for this when a very familiar voice spoke almost directly in his ear: "Hello."

John jumped and looked over at Sherlock, who was grinning at him like the cat that caught the canary. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see this show," Sherlock said, playacting at having his feelings hurt. "I bought those tickets for  _us_ , initially, but since you insisted on bringing some girl-"

"Sarah," John gritted, turning back to his date apologetically. "Sarah, I'm sorry. This is…well, this is Sherlock. The boy I'm mentoring." Looking back over at Sherlock, who was watching him closely, he gulped and turned back to Sarah, adding, "And my friend. He's, um…"

"Charmed," Sherlock said, reaching around John to shake Sarah's hand.

"Likewise," Sarah said, looking bemused. "Big fan of foreign dance, then?"

"Oh, no." Sherlock settled back against the wall, a little smile playing at his lips. "But I wouldn't want to miss this."

As if on cue, the lights faded, leaving only a circle in the middle of the room still cast in light. From the shadows, a woman appeared in costume, her face painted and her posture stiff. Music began, lilting and soft, and the woman moved in slow circles, her hands tipping and her feet shuffling. John licked his lips and looked over at Sarah, who at least seemed to be interested, and then over at Sherlock, who was watching him with undisguised amusement. John almost leaned over to ask him what this was all about when the music ramped up in intensity and the woman was joined by a man, who took her around the waist and spun her before drawing a wand from his belt, leaning back and crying something in Chinese.

The woman lifted into the air, upside-down, and the man took one of her hands and began to dance as she mirrored the moves in the sky.

"It's a sort of play on  _Mobilicorpsus_ ," Sherlock explained in a whisper, his mouth nearly brushing John's ear. "It takes a great deal of concentration to keep her steady. In ancient China, warlocks used this dance to prove to potential suitors that they were skilled magicians."

The man in the middle of the room said something else, and the woman dropped neatly into his arms. He set her down and she went to one knee, raising her palms upward and lowering her head deferentially.

"A sign of acceptance," Sherlock whispered, and John shivered. He glanced over at Sarah, who was still transfixed. "But now she has to prove herself."

As Sherlock spoke, the woman stood and drew a fan from her elegant, multi-coloured robes. She began circling the man as she clicked the fan open and waved it slowly before her. Eventually she stopped and spun, letting her robes flare and then settle, before drawing her wand from her sleeve. She spun the wand and whispered something, then flicked her fingers delicately along the line of her throat and breathed out a spectacular gust of pink-tinted flame. John and Sarah both gasped, and the air filled with the scent of jasmine as the woman fanned out the flames and then pocketed both fan and wand, bowing deeply. The crowd began to clap and John turned to ask Sherlock how the woman had done it…but Sherlock was gone.

"That was brilliant!" Sarah breathed, grabbing John's arm. He looked at her and smiled distractedly; why would Sherlock have wandered off in the middle of the performance? Wasn't this whole thing his idea in the first place? And he'd been grinning like he had some big secret all day; maybe he'd gotten himself into trouble-

Just then, Sherlock tumbled through a door in the back of the room and fell over right in the middle of the spotlight, his wand raised and his hair even wilder than usual. The two dancers froze as he pointed his wand at the doorway and cried: " _Expelliarmus!_ "

"Oh, Christ," John muttered, and then things began to move very quickly. A man rushed into the room, his wand at ready and his lips parted, only to be hit with three hexes at once. Simultaneously, enormous bogeys flew from his nose, rope wound around his chest, and his wand clattered loudly to the floor.

"The dancers!" Sherlock shouted, scrambling to his feet. "Don't let them get away!"

John only briefly registered that Sarah was holding her wand out in front of her, wide-eyed and breathing hard, before he was dashing out of the little store, close on Sherlock's heels. He burst out into the cold, the sunlight harsh after the dimness of the little shop, and cast around for the dancers.

"No, noo," Sherlock groaned, yanking at his hair.

"Sherlock, what the bloody  _hell_ -"

"They were the smugglers!" Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders and shook him. "The smugglers! And now they've gone off! Plus they've seen us. Merlin's beard, you imbecile, that was the whole point of you being there in the first place! You weren't supposed to let them get away!"

"Well maybe if you had informed me of the plan in the first place-"

"Maybe if you hadn't cocked up my plan by bringing some sodding  _date_ -"

"My date hit your attacker with a very well placed bat-bogey hex, thank you, and I'll have you know-"

"Boys, boys," Sarah said, and they both rounded on her at once. Looking vaguely amused, Sarah looked at them both in turn and said, "I don't know about you, but all that excitement's left me starved. Three Broomsticks?"

"Yes," John said gratefully, "that would be lovely. Sarah, really, I  _am_ sorry about all this-"

"I'll pass," Sherlock snapped, grimacing horribly. "John, a word?"

Sarah nodded him off, so John followed Sherlock a few paces away and put his hands on his hips. "Now, what?"

"What do you see in her?" Sherlock hissed. "She's an idiot and a distraction. Other than your shared ability to eat at all hours of the day, you have nothing in common. Make her leave."

"You're not serious!" Running his hand down his face, John said, "Sherlock, you berk, she's a nice girl! And she just tried to save your life."

"A nice girl," Sherlock sneered. "My life was never in any danger, and if I hadn't been so preoccupied wondering about you two I would have never been bested in the first place!"

John groaned. "Well, that's hardly my fault, is it? What do you want from me, Sherlock? We're not…you and I aren't…"

"We aren't  _what_?" Sherlock spat.

"We're not together!" There it was; what John had been dancing around for weeks. "You don't want to date, fine, I accept that. Flattered by my interest and all that, well,  _fine_. But you can't just…you can't expect me not to see other people, Sherlock! It's great that you're flattered but meanwhile I'm going mad! I have to…" John shook his head and drew in a sharp breath. "I can't be a good friend to you and feel like this, too. It's better for both of us if I just…get over it."

Sherlock swallowed and took a step back. "I don't want you to get over it," he said, his voice small.

"Well, too bad," John said, still angry. "This may come as a surprise to you but the sole purpose of my existence isn't stroking your ego. I'm going, Sherlock. Can we fight about this later?" John didn't wait for Sherlock's response; he stomped over to Sarah and grabbed her hand, setting a mean pace in the direction of the Three Broomsticks.


	8. These Things Happen

They never made it to the Three Broomsticks.

Halfway there- and on Sarah's third repetition of the question "are you sure you're all right?"- the worst pain John had ever felt in his life tore its way up his spine and sent him crashing helplessly to the ground. It felt immense and overwhelming, a hundred times worse than the Quidditch injury that tore his shoulder, and even when it was gone he could only lay there uselessly in the grass and twitch as the aftershocks of it fired along his nerves. Dimly he could hear Sarah gasping and making little broken sounds, but none of it made sense because everything hurt and there didn't seem to be anything outside that awful, all-consuming pain.

Eventually he couldn't even twitch anymore; something came over him and made him sleepy and docile, and he felt as though he were drifting gently in a cloud. The pain was still there, too, but it was far away, and the world seemed hush and calm. He settled down into it, into the blackness that was like sleep but not quite, thinking of nothing at all but the far away tingle of hurt under his skin.

\---

John woke up all at once, instantly aware of three things: wherever he was, he'd never been there before; he was upside-down; and Sarah was snuffling quietly beside him.

Blinking away the bleariness, John looked up to see how he was suspended only to discover that he was simply floating in mid-air. Sarah was as well, and the two of them were lightly spinning a little to the left, then a little to the right, as though they were caught in a very gentle breeze. Glancing back down again, he found himself looking straight into the eyes of his captor.

It was the woman, the female dancer from the Lucky Cat. She smiled at him and said, softly, "The pain has ended, I'm sure." Her voice was lightly accented. "But my husband will be only too glad to bring it back. Do not struggle."

"What do you want?" John asked, sounding braver than he felt.

"The pin," the woman said simply, looking over at Sarah.

John groaned. "We don't have it. Sarah's not even  _involved_  in any of this-"

"But Mr. Holmes is, yes?" The woman smiled cruelly. "He has the pin. Or he knows where it is. We will find out, one way or the other. Don't you agree?"

As carefully as he could manage, John felt his pockets.

"Looking for this?" the woman said, pleasant as ever. She held up his wand. "Or this, perhaps?" And there was what he'd actually been looking for; the little shell device. "Interesting thing, this. Tell me: what does it do?"

"Try it out," John said, feeling a bit dizzy from the way his blood was settling. "Hold it to your mouth and say 'Mycroft'. That's how you turn it on."

The woman's laughter echoed, and for the first time John looked around. They were in a very old, very dirty looking foyer. John didn't recognize the house but it was in awful shape, the few pieces of furniture dingy and ripped up and the painting above the mantel coated with a heavy layer of dust. None of it felt very familiar to John, though, and he really wasn't sure if they were still in Scotland, much less Hogsmeade. Was anyone coming for them?

"Please let us go," Sarah sobbed, and John looked at her closely for the first time as well. Her face was bright red, tears streaming down into her hair, and she looked terrified. "We c-can't do anything for you."

"Be quiet, girl," the woman snapped. "We are waiting for our guest. Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Pray he brings the pin or comes prepared to help us find it. Your lives are worth nothing to me, and that pin is worth a great deal more."

Relief flooded through John. Sherlock was coming. Everything was going to be okay, then, because no way would Sherlock rush in like some sort of reckless cavalier, right? He'd call for Mycroft, or for his Auror friend, and they'd all come into together and everything would be fine-

"I hardly know what to say," Sherlock said from somewhere out of view. "I've never been a guest of honor at a surprise party before. I'm only sorry I didn't bring a gift."

"Holmes!" the woman cheered, looking around the room. She stepped aside, revealing the male dancer, who was crouched and staring at John and Sarah, his wand pointed steadily between them. "Yes, welcome. I see you received your invitation."

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, sounding closer. "But as I said, I didn't bring a gift."

"The pin? You didn't bring it?"

"Nope." Closer still; John closed his eyes. It didn't sound like anyone else was coming. "I don't have it. I don't even know where it is. So I'm sorry to say that you've wasted all our time. But the gesture was appreciated, I assure you."

Any trace of playfulness in the woman's face was gone. She looked furious. "You're lying, Mr. Holmes," she said, walking towards the doorway on the right side of the room. "I don't like that very much. Maybe your friends' screams of pain will make you loosen your tongue?"

"No, please," Sarah moaned, at the same moment that the woman's wand went flying out of her hand and thudded against the wall. She stared incredulously at her empty hand for the space of a second before a hex grazed past her and sent her, unharmed, to the floor.

The ground came up to meet John very quickly, the rough wood unforgiving and the angle harsh. For a moment there was nothing but brilliantly white pain, and then other sensations crept in: the sound of Sarah weeping and some scuffling in the distance; the taste of blood in his mouth; the dull throb of his neck and the sting of several splinters in his back. Gasping, John messily clambered up to his feet and stood swaying, taking everything in.

Sarah was on the ground, her arms around her knees and her left wrist bent at an awkward ankle.  _Broken,_  John thought dimly,  _but an easy fix. That can wait._  He looked over towards the doorway, his vision swimming, and felt his jaw drop minutely.

Sherlock, somehow, was holding his own. He was dueling both the man and the woman fiercely but silently, spells shooting from his wand seemingly of their own accord, and the mad bastard looked  _thrilled_. His hair was wild and his clothes were rumpled but there was a small, crooked smile on his lips and his eyes were flashing joyously.

John wasn't sure what Sherlock would want him to do, but he knew what he  _needed_  to do. "Accio wand," he croaked, voice rough from the more recent wash of pain. The woman didn't even seem to notice when his wand slipped out of her loose robes and settled into John's palm. He felt whole again, then, but he didn't have long to savor the feeling. The woman was pressing an advantage; she had shifted around almost to Sherlock's side and John knew it was going to be a blind spot. "No, no…" She lifted her wand; John mirrored the movement. " _Protego!_ " John called out, just as she began to form her own spell. Her hex bounced harmlessly off the shield John had cast, but it had served as a distraction to all three of them.

Several things happened at once: John's wand flew from his hand; the woman crumpled to the ground; and Sarah lifted into the air once again and soared across the room, hitting the wall with a sickening crunch. John was across the room before he even realized he was moving. The man's stomach felt soft and pliable beneath his knee, and his windpipe only jarred John's fist in a distant,  _that's going to hurt tomorrow_ sort of way. "Oh no, no," John gasped, when he realized belatedly that incapacitating the man would probably lead to Sarah falling from a rather considerable height…but the noise of her fall never came. John let the man drop at his feet and looked over.

Sarah was drifting down very slowly, and Sherlock was pointing his wand at her, but he was looking at John. They stood like that for what felt like a long time, Sarah ever floating slowly towards the ground, and then John blinked and looked around the room. "The woman-"

"Gone," Sherlock said as Sarah settled on the floor limply. "It was either her or Sarah, and I…"

"You did the right thing," John said quickly, taking a step forward.

Sherlock chuckled. "Your influence on my behaviour is alarming." He tucked his wand back into his pocket and looked at Sarah's sprawled frame. "As first dates go, I'd say this one wasn't half bad."

"Christ," John said, shaking with laughter despite himself. "Carry her, won't you? My shoulder-"

"I've got it," Sherlock said, flicking his wrist in Sarah's direction and sending her up a few feet into the air again. "Come on. Let's get you both to the infirmary."

John sent a look at the man on the floor. "What about-?"

"Quite dead, actually," Sherlock said casually.

"Jesus!"

Sherlock shrugged. "These things happen."

"These things…Sherlock! I just killed a man!" John shook his head, his breathing far too rapid. "Oh, Jesus, I just killed him, I'm going to be sent to Azkaban-"

"Oh, would you stop?" Sherlock sighed and tapped his foot. "Mycroft will deal with it. And this one was much worse a person than the last one you killed, by my estimation. Now come on."

John blinked at him for a moment and then nodded lamely, following Sherlock outside and back into the bright, windy afternoon. They had been in the Shrieking Shack, apparently; John recognized it now. He spared one more glance at the man-  _the body_ \- before tugging the door closed and following Sherlock and Sarah towards the castle.

 


	9. Talk About a Misunderstanding

John's stay in the infirmary was cursory at best and he was impatient to go, to hear Sherlock's side of the story and discuss what was going to be done with the body of the smuggler. He wasn't hurt and the questions from the healer only served to irritate him. Thankfully that seemed to be quite obvious to the poor old man and before long John was free to go. He looked briefly at Sarah, asleep and small-looking in her thin white bed, and then left the hospital wing as quickly as he could manage.

Sherlock was waiting in the corridor when John rounded the corner. "You're unharmed?" he asked, not quite nonchalantly.

"Fine, mostly," John said, shifting a little under Sherlock's intense gaze. "Worried as hell and pretty sure I'm about to spend my life in prison, but otherwise no problems here."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I told you Mycroft would take care of it. He's already sent a clean-up crew. As a matter of fact he asked me to thank you and said that if you'd like some sort of honorary…" He waved his hand impatiently. "… _thing_ then you're more than welcome to it."

"Oh." John rubbed his eyes, tired for all that it was only half four. "So…everything's okay, then?"

"I hope so," Sherlock said quietly. "Are we…are  _we_  okay?"

"Christ, you git," John grinned, crossing over and pulling Sherlock into a hug. "Of course we're okay."

"Good." Sherlock pulled back and nodded, straightening his robes. "Very good." He ran a hand through his extraordinarily messy hair and sighed, "You're exhausted. Get some sleep; I'll wake you around midnight and we can go to Gringotts and give Sebastian our final assessment."

"What about the pin? And the woman?"

"The woman is named Shan, and Mycroft will find her," Sherlock said. "As for the pin…I know where it is."

"You do?"

Sherlock smiled. "Of course. Get some sleep. We'll talk about it later."

John opened his mouth to argue and wound up yawning instead, which seemed to decide things. "Okay," he said, nodding. "Sleep, then answers. Good night, Sherlock."

"Good evening, John," Sherlock chuckled. John felt him watching the whole time he walked away, but something about his stare made him feel peaceful rather than uncomfortable.

\---

"We need to go down to the vaults first," Sherlock explained, once they had reached the bank.

"All right," John said curiously, following Sherlock through the main hall and towards one of the goblins. "Why?"

"Because I'm an idiot," Sherlock grinned. "I've seen that pin, I'm certain of it. And I know where."

The trip to the vaults was quick and although the goblin gave John a look, he didn't argue when Sherlock insisted he be allowed inside. This time they went to the other vault, the one John had never been in. It was very similar to the other one, if a little neater. Sherlock walked calmly over to a shelf towards the back and very lightly touched a small green  _something_ , hesitated, and then scooped it up and carried it over to John. When he opened his fist, there was small jade hairpin lying in his palm.

"This is the one?" John asked, his eyebrow raised.

"Has to be," Sherlock said. "It's ancient, and if I'm correct it probably carries some sort of weak love spell and a glamour, something small but efficient. Makes the wearer more beautiful and charming, that sort of thing." He looked over to the goblin for verification, and received it by way of a nod.

John pursed his lips. "All right. But what's it doing here? I thought one of the goblins took it. That's why they were killed, right?"

"It's jade," Sherlock said, and because John remained baffled he groaned and went on, "Goblins don't work with jade. This pin isn't goblin-made."

"So?"

"So despite Shan's keen interest in the thing, the goblin that ran this vault refused to remove it." Sherlock walked over and set it back on the shelf, and when he spoke again it was musingly. "She must have thought he was lying, that he'd decided to keep it for himself. Fascinating."

"How do you know her name is Shan?" John asked.

Sherlock grinned. "Didn't you look at your ticket?" When John shook his head, he crossed over and reached into John's pocket, withdrawing one of the stubs. He handed it to John, who read:  _Lady Shan and the Spider, world famous dance duo._ He looked back up at Sherlock and laughed, shaking his head.

\---

They went back to the surface and made their way to Sebastian's office, where they filled him in on everything that had happened (leaving out the minor incident of John killing the Spider, and their silly row outside the Lucky Cat).

Seb sat back and crossed his legs, looking as smug as though he'd solved the case himself. "And this Shan? How do we know she won't be back here again?"

"You know my brother," Sherlock said stiffly. "Do you really think the woman will be able to set foot in the UK again without him finding her?"

Smiling, Seb spread his fingers and sighed, "No. I imagine not." He sat forward and fixed Sherlock with a nasty look. "With everything mostly settled, have you reconsidered my offer? I would still happily acquiesce to whatever particular…demands you might make." Dropping his voice to a stage whisper, he added, "Especially if those demands came in the form of 'more' or 'harder'."

John's face went so red it must have been nearly purple. Sherlock, for his part, simply sneered and sat back. "Still not interested." He steepled his fingers and said, "Put the rest of the money in John's account as well."

"Surely Mycroft is aware of your involvement now?" Sebastian blinked.

"Yes," Sherlock said, looking sly, "but I'd prefer John had the money, all the same."

Slightly rankled, Sebastian shot a glare at John and then smiled nastily. "And have  _you_ reconsidered my offer? Those classes are still available, and they can really be so helpful for your kind-"

John saw it out of the corner of his eye: Sherlock wriggled his fingers, and then John's attention was immediately drawn back to Sebastian, who was up and shouting, covered in ink. His desk, too, was soaked with black, his inkpot having apparently tipped over on its own. "Ah, well," Sherlock smiled, "we'll just leave you to that, shall we? Farewell, Sebastian."

He beamed at John, who began giggling almost instantly and didn't stop until they were nearly at the castle.

\---

In the morning, John went straight to the infirmary.

Sarah was sitting up in bed eating breakfast and gave John a weak smile when he stepped around the partition. "Sit, please," she said, gesturing to the empty chair beside her bed. "Tell me what happened."

John did, with as much thoroughness as he was able. Sarah seemed to take it all pretty well (although once more John failed to mention that he'd killed the man who had put her in the hospital wing) and sat looking very thoughtful for long moments after John had finished his story. When she broke the silence, it was only to say, "Huh."

"Yeah," John said, looking sheepish. "I probably should have warned you. Things can get…a bit out of hand when Sherlock and I are on a case."

Sarah smiled at him, a sad look in her eyes. "You're crazy about him, aren't you?"

John flushed. "I-I…Sarah, I-"

"It's fine," she said, holding up her hand. "I knew it as soon as he showed up at the Lucky Cat. The way you looked at him…well. I knew."

"It…it doesn't matter," John said, swallowing hard. "Sherlock doesn't…well, he's not into that sort of thing. We're just friends, that's all."

"Uh huh," Sarah said softly, looking unconvinced.

John fidgeted with his robes. "Look, I'll understand if you don't want to go out with me again. This…well, it wasn't a very successful date, was it?"

"John," Sarah laughed, "I would love to go out with you again." More seriously, she went on, "But I don't think it would be very fair to either of us. You should talk to him."

"Sarah-"

"No, I'm serious." She took John's hand and held it tightly. "Talk to him. I saw how he looked at you, too. He's just as crazy about you, John, even if he doesn't know it yet."

John shook his head, but he sighed, "All right. I'll talk to him."

"Good on you!" Sarah grinned, patting his hand. "Now, go. You look right peckish. I think you've been eyeing my toast the whole time we've been talking."

\---

After breakfast, John slipped into the loo and went into one of the stalls. "Sherlock," he whispered, holding his little shell device.

"John," Sherlock's deep voice answered.

"Can I come round tonight? After supper?"

"Of course," Sherlock said. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing. I just…" John cleared his throat. "I just wanted to…to talk about something."

"Something to do with Sarah?"

John licked his lips. "Sort of."

There was a pause, and then: "Something to do with us?"

"Yeah," John sighed, rubbing his temple. "Yeah, something to do with us."

"All right," Sherlock agreed. "After supper. And John? I…well, I'll see you tonight."

John stared at the little shell for a long moment before tucking it back in his pocket and walking dazedly to back to his room.


	10. Finally!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're morally opposed to reading about teen boys having sex in somewhat graphic detail, skip to the end.

"Sarah ended it."

John pulled the door closed behind him and doffed his cloak, tossing it carelessly on to Sherlock's chair. He shrugged, hoping to seem casual. "More or less." When he looked up at Sherlock, he realized he was being watched. Intensely watched, at that, and there was a splash of colour across Sherlock's cheeks that he hadn't seen before. They locked eyes and John's breath became shallow, his heart drumming painfully.

It seemed to take ages for Sherlock to cross the small room, but when he did he was suddenly close, much too close, and John pressed his back and his trembling palms against the door, his head tipping up to meet Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock regarded him in silence for a long while, his eyes searching John's, before whispering, huskily, "Good," and pressing his lips to John's.

John felt shot through with electricity. He gasped against Sherlock's mouth, his hands jumping to Sherlock's thin waist automatically. Using John's parted lips to his advantage, Sherlock kissed John more deeply, letting their tongues slide together, and John pressed into it, into Sherlock, a small, muffled noise escaping him. "John," Sherlock mumbled against John's lips, kissing him again, bringing up his hand to stroke John's face. John shuddered at the touch, his body clamoring for more.

John slid his hands up Sherlock's back, pulling his shirt free of his trousers and rucking the fabric. He let go and slipped his hands up underneath, savoring the slightly damp heat of Sherlock's skin. Had he ever guessed the younger boy could be so warm? Sherlock arched into his touch, groaning into their kiss, and John shivered again, his hands tightening and nails scratching. He needed…he needed…

"Too many clothes," Sherlock rasped, echoing his thoughts perfectly. John nodded, unable to speak, and let Sherlock step away from him with only a small whimper of dissatisfaction. The reward, though…Sherlock's deft fingers worked their way down his shirt, flicking the small buttons open and revealing a V of pale skin that grew as he worked, the sight of it knocking John back against the wall and snatching his breath away. God, Sherlock was gorgeous. Unbelievable. John couldn't think-

"I haven't done this in awhile," Sherlock said, his fingers paused on the last button and his voice too rough to truly drawl, "but I believe you're meant to be undressing, as well."

"Ah," John managed, shucking his jumper off in one quick fluid movement. He undid the first couple of buttons at his collar and tore his shirt off as well, throwing it aside. "Sorry."

Sherlock's playful smile faded into something more serious as he looked John over, eyes flitting from the small scar on John's shoulder to the dip of his clavicles and then down the line of his chest before settling on the small, dark patch of hair just below John's navel. There was no way John could just stand there, not with Sherlock looking at him like that. He surged forward, pulling Sherlock towards him and pressing their mouths together roughly as his hands came up and pushed Sherlock's shirt off his shoulders and to the floor.

He slid his hands down Sherlock's arms and brought them to the boy's belt, moving his fingers to the buckle and fumbling with it, hampered slightly by the way he was trembling. Breaking the kiss, Sherlock breathed, "Here, let me," and took John's hands away, pressing them to the warm, soft flesh of Sherlock's stomach. It had surprised John to find that everything about Sherlock was soft: his hair, his skin, his lips. For such an abrasive character, Sherlock was extremely touchable.

They were close enough that John could feel the whisper of Sherlock's fingers against his own stomach as Sherlock unclasped his belt and undid his trousers. Then the whisper became a reality as Sherlock moved his hands to John's zip, brushing against the bulge underneath and piercing John with a delicious sort of agony. "God," John panted, nipping at Sherlock's lower lip and moving his hands lower, down Sherlock's abdomen and to the silky fabric of his pants. He eased his hands under the waist band, grasping the sharp bones of Sherlock's hips and smiling at the soft hiss his actions elicited.

"Off," Sherlock growled, his gentle motions now frenzied as he tugged at John's jeans. "Off, now, for Merlin's sake."

John laughed, a little startled at the rumbling depth of his own voice, and kissed Sherlock almost sweetly, grabbing his wrists and pulling his hands away. "Patience," he whispered, kissing Sherlock again. "I don't want to rush this."

"No," Sherlock sighed, as John released his hands. He slid them up John's chest and wrapped his arms around John's neck, pulling them closer. "Nor do I. But," he kissed John deeply, slowly, sucking at his bottom lip, "I want to touch you."

Sherlock's words shot through John like a spell. "Christ," he rumbled, pressing his nose into the delicate hollow of Sherlock's neck. "Okay, yes. Less clothes. Now."

It was Sherlock's turn to laugh, although the laugh turned into something more like a whimper as John kissed his pulse just under his jaw, pressing his tongue against the incessant tap of Sherlock's heartbeat. Sherlock smelled so good, like tea tree oil and warm amber and a touch of musky cologne, and something else, something that was only Sherlock. John breathed Sherlock in as he stepped out of his shoes and kicked them aside, ghosting a smile against Sherlock's shoulder as he felt the taller boy do the same, but more slowly, as though he were drugged or half-asleep.

"All right?" John murmured, putting a little distance between them as he looked up.

Sherlock met his eyes, his pupils wide and ringed with the nonsense gray-silver colour that drove John mad. He looked amazing, his cheeks and neck flush and his eyes half-hooded, and John felt a little rush of pleasure at knowing that he'd done that, that he'd made Sherlock lose himself and would soon enough make the boy come entirely undone. "All right," Sherlock echoed, his voice thick. He dipped his head and brushed his lips against John's, not quite a kiss, and whispered, "Please, John. I need more of you."

John had never undressed more quickly in his life, nor had he ever torn someone's clothes off with more urgency. He wasn't even aware of the fact that he'd pressed Sherlock down on to the bed until he was standing with his shins against it, Sherlock's legs on either side of him and their mouths hungrily searching each other's skin. Sherlock's slender fingers traced his hips and then moved inwards, lower, drawing a deep groan from John as they passed over the taut stretch below his bellybutton and wrapped around his shaft, both hands, one of his thumbs pressing into the slick slit of his cock and making him gasp. He bucked into the hold without meaning to, his hands leaving Sherlock and falling to the bed for support. Sherlock looked up at him and wrapped his legs around John's waist, pulling him closer even as his hands worked up, down, twisting a little on each stroke.

It was too much, too quickly, and John was already way too close. "Sherlock, Sherlock," he panted, prying those pale hands away and bringing them up to his mouth, kissing them gently so the action didn't feel like rejection. Thankfully Sherlock seemed to understand, unwinding his legs and sitting up slightly, pressing a kiss to John's lips, his jaw, his neck.

"Bed," Sherlock said, and John obeyed without a second thought, climbing up into the narrow space and letting Sherlock press him down and straddle him, the rub of their pricks together making his eyes screw up and his mouth fall open with a silent gasp. The touch didn't last long; Sherlock trailed kisses down his chest and lower, much lower, until John realized what he was planning to do and sat up on his elbows, his eyes wide and heart racing.

The first press of Sherlock's lips to the vein that run along the underside of John's cock was enough that he almost gave up on his resolve to watch. Almost. Instead he twisted his hands even more firmly into the sheets and gritted his teeth as Sherlock swirled his nimble tongue around the head of his prick and then swallowed it down, his right hand grasping John's shaft and his left holding John's hips down. John hadn't even realized he'd been thrusting until the hand pressed a little more firmly and he stopped himself, wrenching his shaking hand from the sheet and winding it into Sherlock's ridiculous curls. He very carefully didn't press down, even when Sherlock teased him with little flicks of his tongue that made John's hips twitch against his will, and when Sherlock pulled the length of him into his mouth again John moaned and said, breathlessly, "You're so beautiful, Sherlock. God. So beautiful." It was a foolish thing to say, probably, because John didn't really know what Sherlock wanted from this and making himself sounded like the hopelessly-in-love sop that he was probably wasn't the best idea. But it was true; Sherlock's full lips, Sherlock's dark eyes, the sprinkle of a blush across the bridge of his nose and the way his mouth almost looked heart-shaped around John's cock…it was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

Sherlock popped off of his cock with a little gasping breath and licked his lips, his eyes on John. "You mean it," Sherlock said, his voice broken but thoughtful. "When you say things like that, you mean it."

"Of course I mean it," John whispered, running his hand down to Sherlock's cheekbone and letting his thumb trail the length of it. "You're amazing. There's no one…" He cleared his throat and didn't finish the sentence:  _there's no one in the world like you_. Instead he said something he should have said much earlier, something that had only just crossed his mind. "Sherlock, we should probably be using condoms at this point."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shuffled upwards before letting himself fall indecorously to the bed, pressing himself against John's side. "Pureblood wizards aren't susceptible to Muggle disease," he said, running his hand across John's chest, "and aside from that, I acquired your medical records last month, so I know you're clean."

"How-" John began, but then he shook his head. Mycroft, of course. How else?

Sherlock went on as he nuzzled against John's shoulder, "I'm clean, too, obviously, but if you'd prefer to examine the documents they're on my desk somewhere."

Searching the papers on Sherlock's desk would take more time than John was willing to give. "I'll take your word for it," he said, bringing Sherlock's mouth up to his. They kissed lazily for a moment, letting the heat rebuild until finally they were both gasping again as Sherlock drew back and ran his tongue along the curve of John's ear.

"John," he breathed, making John shiver. "How do you want to come?"

The rush of heat in John's stomach twisted. "Inside you," he said softly, pulling Sherlock closer to him. "If…if you'll let me. I'd like to…"

"Yes," Sherlock said simply. He sat up and straddled John again, running his hands over John's chest before lifting one hand and flicking his wrist carelessly in the direction of his desk. One of the smaller drawers popped open and a little tub flew out, landing in Sherlock's palm with a tiny thud. It was something of a rare treat to see Sherlock do magic outside of a crisis, John realized, and it always took him aback when he remembered that Sherlock did all his spells without speaking and half the time without even holding his wand. Sherlock held the tub, focusing on it, and John wondered absently what exactly he was doing until a small glob of- what, some sort of salve?- lifted out and coated John's prick neatly.

_Oh_ , John thought stupidly,  _he was warming it up._

"Good?" Sherlock asked, and John had to laugh, then. His few previous encounters had been with girls and once, memorably, with a Muggle boy; sex with a wizard was already proving to be a unique experience.

"Brilliant," he said, grinning a bit lopsidedly, and Sherlock flushed anew, tossing the tub aside. His grin was replaced by a hungry grimace, however, when Sherlock grasped his erection and slid against it, his own cock flush and pressed against the flesh of his pale stomach. For a moment there was just that, just pleasant friction and Sherlock's dark eyes locked on John's, and then he pressing down, around, easing his way on to John and biting back a moan.

Heat; wondrous heat. John's eyes flickered closed, his hands falling to Sherlock's circling hips, and let the sensations roll over him until Sherlock cried out and he had to, absolutely had to, move against him. He thrust upwards, captivated by the feeling of Sherlock crashing down towards him in perfect, tandem rhythm, drunk from the sounds of Sherlock's low moans and his own heavy breathing. "Sherlock, yes," he gasped, sliding his hands to Sherlock's lower back.

Seeming to know what John wanted, Sherlock dipped down and kissed him, deeply at first but then only gentle presses of his lips, their breath mingling. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock looking at him and felt a little jolt of surprise and pleasure; Sherlock's gaze was hazy, yes, but it was unbroken, all of his immense and amazing brainpower focused solely on John. Still rocking against him, Sherlock searched his gaze and then dropped his head lower, pressing his face into John's neck. John almost didn't hear him as he whispered, "I've never felt like this. Never."

It was as if John's dreams had all decided to come together in one moment of perfect, blissful clarity. Sex with Sherlock was nothing to scoff at, of course not, but this… "Sherlock," John said softly, lifting the other boy's chin and meeting his eyes again, "me either. Not ever. I didn't even know it was possible to feel like this."

Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment before kissing him, the kiss different this time, something new in it that stole John's breath away. When he pulled away he smiled weakly and sat up, grinding his hips down and making John shout. "Touch me, John," he commanded, voice thick with want but imperious as ever.

John had never refused Sherlock before, not when he took that tone, and he certainly wasn't planning to start now. He reached up and took Sherlock's hip in one hand, stroking him with the other. At John's careful touch Sherlock's hips stuttered and his head went back, his back arching. He ran his hands across John's, briefly, before grazing them up the length of his own body and losing them in the mess of curls that bounced with every one of John's thrusts.

The sight was maddening. "Sherlock, I'm-" John gasped, struggling to keep his eyes open. "I'm-"

"Yes," Sherlock panted, bringing his head back up and looking at John with his bottom lip between his teeth. "Yes," he said again, "I- yes- I'm close-"

John groaned and quickened his strokes, feeling Sherlock's cock pulse in his hand just moments before his tight heat did the same around John and Sherlock's hips abruptly stopped, a deep, sobbing moan shuddering through him as his head went back and warm, wet cum dribbled down John's hand.

"Oh God!" John cried, and followed Sherlock as he always did, unable to stop himself and, like always, not really wanting to. His eyes closed, his hips bucked upwards once, twice, and then he slumped back against the bed, his ragged breathing making his chest heave.

Sherlock drooped down against him, panting warmly against his skin. For a moment neither of them was capable of moving and so just laid still, clutching each other loosely. John pressed a kiss against Sherlock's temple, and Sherlock smiled against his neck, but otherwise they were blessedly, bonelessly still.

Eventually, with a shaky sigh, Sherlock shifted off of him (John mourning the loss despite the oversensitivity) and fell down beside him, actually snuggling against him.

"Didn't peg you for a cuddler," John chuckled, kissing his forehead.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed. "Shut up, John."

John laughed, his chest strangely light. He hadn't lied to Sherlock; he'd never felt like this, so undeniably happy that he could easily run through the corridors shouting about it and yet so unerringly content that he wanted honestly do nothing more than lie here, carding his hand through Sherlock's damp curls and smiling like a fool.

"You're thinking," Sherlock whispered, angling so that he could see John's face without lifting his head from John's shoulder. "About me."

John grinned. "Yes, you little mind-reader."

"I've never been good at Legilimency," Sherlock said seriously. "What were you thinking?"

"That I'm happy," John said simply, and he was pleased with his word choice when Sherlock's face lit up, a little smile playing at his kiss-plump lips.

"I am, too," Sherlock said, still smiling, and then he groaned and fell back against the bed, draping his arm over his eyes like a Victorian heroine. "Except that I'm meant to be packing. I'm going home for Christmas holidays." He shifted his arm a little and peeked at John. "Are you?"

John was  _not_ going home for Christmas, and he wasn't sure if he was happy about that or not. On the one hand, the castle was sure to be lonely and boring, especially without Sherlock around. On the other hand, Harry and holidays were a bad mix. Egg nog, mulled wine, and memories of John's father all led to a miserable drunk, an angry mum, and John hiding in his room. Which he couldn't do, because his room was being let out to a boarder- a uni student named Charlie, who John had met once- while John was at school, hence the reason he wasn't going home in the first place.

"Excellent," Sherlock said, yanking John from his thoughts. "Since you're not going to your house for the holidays, come to mine. My mother will be demanding and overly nosy, and Mycroft will be insufferable as always. My father is on the Continent and won't be returning, which is a small blessing, but that only means Mycroft will be even more overbearing and fatherly than usual, which mean you  _must_ come. I'll go mad if you don't."

"Some might argue," John said, turning to his side and snaking his arm around Sherlock's waist, "that it's a little too late for that."

"Then consider this a preventative measure," Sherlock smiled, "against your own madness. All alone in this big old castle, empty bed, quiet common room…"

"Yes, fine, I'll come," John groaned, pretending to be annoyed. "Although how surrounding myself with Holmes' will keep me from going insane, I'm not sure."

"I intend to keep you almost entirely to myself," Sherlock smirked. "Did you know I have my own wing? A whole section of the manor to ourselves for ten whole days." Thinking Sherlock was talking about sex, John opened his mouth to say something cheeky when Sherlock suddenly sat up and gasped, "Oh, John, I can show you my laboratory! And my Potions storeroom. Oh, and the greenroom. I'll think you'll like what I've done; I've been cross-breeding nettles to create a certain strand…"

John let Sherlock's voice fade into a happy but distant rumble, yawning and tucking himself closer to the chattering boy's satisfying warmth. A week and a half at the Holmes manor. If someone had told him this was going to be his life at the start of term, he would have blanched and stuttered in equal turns. But now?

"Go to sleep, John," Sherlock murmured, brushing his lips against John's cheek. "We'll discuss the trip later."

"All right," John agreed happily, snuggling into the blanket that Sherlock pulled over them. Ten days at the Holmes manor. Well, John had overcome greater challenges than that. And- here John considered their recent little escapade with a small smile- how hard could it be to keep Sherlock entertained for ten short days, with a whole wing to themselves?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the next book in this series, The Great (Quidditch) Game, in which Sherlock has an admirer who likes to play his own sort of game, using the golden snitch as a timer.
> 
> As always, any inaccuracies are due to me being both lazy and American. Although I'll have you know I did quite a bit of research for this one. All my HP books are sitting in a messy stack near my bed because I kept needing them for fact checks. So. Maybe I'll amend that to "any inaccuracies are due to me being lazy, American, and terrible at research".


End file.
